exhibiting self-consciousness

The Reluctant Thug

When Truck has to bodyguard a gangbanger during negotiations at a sauna, he thought he was gonna get a happy ending… and he’s right!

But can he handle who it comes from?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Truck puffed up his pride at the sight of the little men and women scurrying away from him and the other Bloods as they entered the sauna. He liked being the biggest man around, and he especially liked scaring off the weaklings.
He wasn’t just a bully and street dealer though, not anymore, Carson had seen to that. Truck was a somebody. He was a bodyguard and assistant for Carson Washerman, who led the Bloods of Baltimore. It was more like a real job than slinging dime bags had been. He got paid weekly, a flat amount, and he followed Carson everywhere, intimidated the nigga Carson didn’t like (and sometimes, the ones he did like too) and beat up the nigga Carson told him to beat up.
Not just niggas, honkies and whatever else too. Truck was good at his job.
Today, Carson brought Truck to a sauna, Thackenswitch, where a deal was going to be made. The Italians always did their deals somewhere like this. It was annoying, most of the time, but Truck looked forward to today — Carson had promised a prostitute for him when the deal was done. Thackenswitch got hos a-plenty, everyone in the hood knew that.
The Italians — the Cavollo family and their stooges — always did deals at places like this cuzza the lack of clothes. Nobody could wear a wire, and nobody could sneak a gun in.
“Right this way, please, sir,” said the smiling Japanese lady, Yuki on her nametag, whose kind face belied the tension and fear Truck could sense beneath the surface of her demeanor — she knew Truck and Carson were dangerous thugs.
The Italians presumably weren’t here yet, which Truck was glad for. He was responsible not just for being big and scary but also for general security. He was better at being big and punching people than he was at sweeping a room for recording devices, noticing subtle threats or finding hidden guns. So he had hoped to be here before the Italians, giving him time to do a search.
“Hurry up. You go in there first, nigga,” Carson said when the Japanese lady left them at the door to the sauna. The steam billowed out from inside the room when she opened the door. “Make sure there ain’t no guns hidden nowhere, no bombs, nothin’ like that.”
Truck nodded. He took off his clothes, stripping down to his boxers before he saw Carson furrow his brow at him. Truck didn’t mind getting naked, and it seemed Carson expected that. Truck hurried in, his big-ass booty jiggling up and down as he disappeared in the steam cloud.
Inside the sauna sat two Italian men, also stark naked, body hair matted to their skin. They looked at him as though they’d known he was about to walk in. They stared with grim eyes like vultures. One of them was big — the muscle — and the other was a normal-ass dago. Pauly Rosso was the enforcer, and Sonny Cavollo was the made man.
“Uh, they in here already, Carson,” Truck said through the doorway. Truck wished he had gotten here early. Carson had said to search for hidden guns in here, but that wasn’t possible now, and it was all Truck could think of. The Italians could have an armory hidden here.
Not many places to hide anything though. The Italians were naked, the benches had no underbench area, there was no furniture aside from the pillar of coals gushing steam and the bucket of water beside it, and that was right in the center of the sauna, so there was no space to hide anything behind it. Truck made a big show of looking everywhere anyway, just so the Italians knew the Bloods didn’t trust them.
By the time Truck completed his search, Carson was in the sauna, naked, his thickness jiggling. He didn’t seem self-conscious even though he was kind of pudgy. The muscly Italian, Pauly Rosso, was pudgy too but strong as hell, built like an Olympic discus thrower or maybe like an infected discus. Sonny Cavollo was lean like a stretched ferret, with the kind of face women think is handsome even though it isn’t. He looked like he mistreated his women, but they loved him anyway. Truck knew the type. Truck was the exact opposite of that.
Truck stood beside the door as Carson talked to the Italian. Truck made eye contact with his counterpart on the other side, Pauly, who sized his naked body up. Pauly was burly, hairy, offputtingly grizzled, sitting behind his boss with his legs spread wide, big fat cock resting sweatily against his hairy thigh. It was weird for them to sit like that, Pauly behind his boss, so if Signor Cavollo leaned back, he’d be using Pauly’s fat dick as a pillow.
Truck hated seeing naked men, they were so ugly, like they retroactively made women he had seen before less attractive. He only watched girl-girl porn. Any sight of a man’s bare dick turned him off.
On the other hand, Truck liked when men saw him naked, because he was a hulking giant with a cock like a baby’s arm. But this wop bodyguard — Pauly Rosso — was nearly as big and plenty intimidating in his own right. Truck wasn’t used to that.
And he was hairy. Truck very much disliked hairy honkies. White men oughta shave. A little chest hair is fine, but any more than a classy treasure trail was barbarism. White men oughta know better.
Italians do not know better, however. Not knowing better is what it means to be Italian. Truck did not like Italians.
The deal was over in a flash. Truck barely even noticed. Nothing actually changed hands here in the sauna, of course, but they made a handshake agreement, and Truck was glad it was all over so quick. No need to worry about hidden guns then.
“Let’s celebrate, man,” Carson said. He stood up and flashed a grin. “I arranged for us all to get massages… with a happy ending.” Carson opened the door from the sauna, so a burst of cool, refreshing air hit Truck’s face.
For a moment the cool air subdued the steam, which died down in the sauna.
In came that pretty Japanese woman with a delicate face and massive tits concealed by a colorful kimono — Yuki Yoshida. She showed no emotion, even when she smiled robotically at Carson’s naked body.
Truck grinned. He was gonna get to fuck. Carson usually treated him good like that.
“Where’s the others?” Carson asked with a knowing grin. He glanced at Truck, who wondered why Carson smiled like that — was this a prank? Was there something going on? Carson looked like he was sharing an inside joke with Truck, but there was no joke Truck was aware of.
The Japanese woman opened the door, and in walked two more attractive Japanese women, who were totally nonplussed about the foursome of naked men in front of them. Truck was not used to people ignoring his size, but here, he was not that much bigger than the Italian bodyguard. A huge blond man arrived as well, carrying a foursome of folding massage tables in his massive arms, which he set up right there in the sauna.
The blond man was foreign, you could tell by looking at him. He carried himself in an indescribably European way. Truck assumed he was just here to set up the massage tables, which was what he did — he had massive arms and a broad chest, that was why, he was capable of carrying all four tables at once. It was weird he did so wearing just a pair of shorts, but whatever… Truck had eyes only for the women.
Truck smiled. A part of his mind told him to do the math. Count the women, count the men. Compute the ratio. The math was simple, but Truck couldn’t look away from the Asian women and their curves. Truck licked his teeth when one of the women caught his eye.
Three women. Four of us. Plus the weird European man. Five men, three women?
The Italians grinned and laughed. “Hey, I like the way you think, Carson!” The Italian bodyguard Pauly stood and came up to Truck, wrapping one hairy, meaty arm around Truck’s shoulders, while the other Italian leaned in close to Carson to kiss him on the cheek. Truck knew that was normal for Italians, but that didn’t make it easier to tolerate when the Italian bodyguard kissed him on the cheek too, their bodies so close his uncut swarthy cock rested on Truck’s trunk-like thigh and his hairy chest collided with Truck’s gang-tatted muscles.
They all four climbed up onto one of the massage tables that European man set up. Truck really didn’t like laying there with his back exposed, but he supposed the masseuses were likely safe, and anyway, the negotiations were over. There’d be no point in springing an ambush now.
The masseuses were all Japanese, not part of the gang negotiations in the first place. They probably didn’t even speak English.
Truck didn’t get why that blond man remained in the sauna the whole time — security, maybe? Truck wasn’t sure. Maybe they were nervous the Italians would rape a masseuse. Italians would do that, they would. They were so damn gropey. Truck didn’t approve.
The European man was almost as big and muscular as the Italian bodyguard was, so it didn’t seem likely he was a masseur.
But it turned out, that’s exactly what he was.
Finally, the math computed in Truck’s mind.
There were four men here waiting for a massage, but there were only three masseuses.
And that one European guy. Security or whatever. With his hair in a ponytail. Shoulders like an ox.
“Have fun, Truck,” Carson said with a smirk.
The pretty women spread out to Carson and the Italians. That hulking blond prettyboy came to Truck and planted his hands on Truck’s broad shoulders.
“Man! Why do I got the dude?!” Truck grunted when he realized what had happened and what was about to happen. He tried to sound tough. He narrowed his eyes to slits aimed at the masseur, who ignored his hostile mug.
He’s not getting a happy ending. Truck grimaced. He’d rather skip the whole massage. What did he want with a massage from a man? Seemed pointless.
Carson and the Italians laughed. Carson responded like he had expected this — of course, Truck thought, that’s what Carson had been hinting at. Ever since last week, when Truck said he had not jacked off with any men in his seven months behind bars, Carson said that was bullshit for a Blood’s bodyguard. ‘I threaten people wit’ you bein’ they prison cellmate all the time, nigga. You gotta know how to do it.’ Truck just assumed it was all a joke. Besides that, he did know how to do it — there was no magic to it. If he really needed to cornhole a man, Truck thought, he could do it.
Nobody told him he’d look like a pussy if he didn’t do it. Apparently all of Carson’s other enforcers had a prison wife during their time behind bars. They thought only a pussy jacked himself off — literally, they said only “a pussy can make a nigga cum”. So if you jack yourself off with your hand, then you’re a pussy. Truck assumed that was a joke until Carson said criticized him for not doing it.
It wasn’t like Truck told Carson to threaten niggas with a ramrodding. Truck didn’t wanna do that. Why not just beat people up? So much simpler. Truck could beat a nigga up, then fuck a bitch. Why try and combine those two things?
“Enjoy your happy ending, Truck,” Carson said. He snorted back laughter, then groaned as his own massage began, and Carson’s thickboy body jiggled beneath his woman’s touch.
Truck flared his nostrils and bristled, but he didn’t say anything. Carson didn’t want his bodyguard talking back to him.
The main part he found disturbing so far was that the masseur was a thickly-muscled Swedish man named Johan. Truck would have hoped for a delicate, flamboyant man who was as feminine as possible in accent and mannerisms and body shape. Johan had long blond hair, but he was built like a Viking raider, with a square jaw and a deep, gravelly voice. Truck could tell he was not gonna be able to ram Johan so hard he begged him to stop, and as far as Truck was concerned, if you didn’t ramrod your bitch til it was too much for him, you weren’t doing it right. That was easy to say when Truck wasn’t gonna ramrod any bitch. Johan’s well-muscled ass looked like it could take a lot of punishment.
“Roll over,” said Johan in his thick Swedish accent.
Truck did so, hoping he didn’t look self-conscious. He kept his eyes closed. The first part of the massage, where Johan rubbed his back, had gone past so quick Truck barely noticed it. He was not relaxed.
Laying down on his back now, Truckcouldn’t see the others. There was an occasional grunt, and the moist sound of flesh on flesh, but Truck couldn’t tell from the sound alone whether the others were still getting massages or if they had moved on to their “happy ending”. He smelled something salty, either jizz or precum, or maybe he was imagining it.
He tried to pretend his masseur was one of the pretty Japanese females, but Johan’s hands were so massive and meaty they were like bear paws. It was impossible to picture a beautiful girl attached to those mitts. Truck closed his eyes.
One of those hands touched his cock, and Truck gasped. He bit his lip to cover up the sound, not wanting to sound like he didn’t know what he was doing. He kept his eyes closed.
It did feel good, but Truck tried not to show it. He kept his face stoic. Luckily the Italians and Carson were more involved in their women. Truck kept sneaking peeks at the Asian women, which helped his dick throb in Johan’s grip, as a few sparks of pleasure danced through his body.
Truck frowned. This shouldn’t feel too good, he thought. Only a booty bandit was really into this shit, and Truck Simpel was no booty bandit.
His dick firmed up in Johan’s hand. Johan’s other hand continued to rub Truck’s chest, tweaking his nipples and caressing his shoulders. Truck’s body told him it felt good, but his mind said he was too tense to enjoy it.
Then Johan’s head lowered slowly. He kissed Truck on the chest, and his tongue teased Truck’s nipples. That also made Truck’s eyes open wide because it felt better than he was expecting. Truck gasped and, this time, he couldn’t conceal how loud the sound was. It made Carson laugh and clap his hands.
At last Johan’s mouth encircled Truck’s big cock, and Truck again made a loud choking-like sound. He sucked in his breath and held it in, his eyes bugging out. Johan was just doing it, like it was nothing, swallowing his cock to the root. Few women ever gave him a blowjob like this.
“Is your big man new?” asked the Italian Sonny Cavollo, who chortled at Truck’s noises.
Carson laughed so hard he couldn’t answer, and the more he laughed at Truck, the more Truck couldn’t control his reaction. Johan’s confident, large mouth felt so good on his manhood that he couldn’t take it. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He nearly fell off the massage table from squirming so hard.
But Truck forced himself to take a deep breath. Calm down, nigga, calm down. It’s just a mouth on your dick.
But it felt so damn good!
This was actually better than any blowjob Truck had ever had. It was deeper for sure. Truck had a massive cock, and no woman had ever deep-throated it like Johan did. With every passing moment, the pleasure was amplified, coursing through his veins like fire, as Johan’s mouth worked furiously up and down Truck’s veiny shaft.
“Hmmm!” Truck clenched his teeth to avoid moaning. He writhed on the massage table for a few seconds, then told himself again to calm down. The ecstasy wracking his body felt so good he wanted to cry out.
He hoped he didn’t communicate that through body language, because that wasn’t gangsta. The Italians would think he was a booty bandit if they thought he enjoyed this too much. Carson wanted Truck to have that reputation, but Truck did not. How would he ever get a woman again if they found out he was a booty bandit?
“Holy fuck…” the Italian bodyguard Pauly was laughing too, along with Carson and the other Italian, watching Truck shake on the massage table.
All three of them treated Truck’s reaction like a big joke, but there was an element of jealousy in their voices too. Their Japanese masseuses handled their cocks and soon started to suck on them delicately, but none throated it as enthusiastic as Johan, and none were even remotely capable of going as deep as he could — Johan was, after all, gigantic. The Japanese women might as well have been mice.
“If you wanna cornhole him, Truck…” Carson said with a groan as his dick finally perked up in his masseuse’s mouth. “He looks like he’d be fine with that.” Carson had a low throaty chuckle. He looked at Truck as though this suggestion was an order.
Truck didn’t need to be told twice. He remained embarrassed about his reaction, but he was no longer so nervous about doing it at all. He just wished he looked like a real gangsta doing it, instead of a spoiled teenager finally losing his virginity. He wondered if Johan’s ass was as tight as a female’s.
It turned out it was, or at least it was as tight as any of the women Truck had ever fucked in the ass. Not many. When your dick is more than a foot long, most women nope out at sight of it.
Truck stroked his own cock a few times as Johan lubed up his ass. Johan’s face remained firm and fixed. He hadn’t spoken since he walked in the room. Truck wasn’t sure he spoke English that well, but when Truck told him to get in position, Johan responded like he understood.
Again, his height made this strange — Truck had never been with anyone near his own size. He was used to needing to lower his hips and bend his knees to fuck a girl standing up.
But Johan just bent over that massage table, sticking his ass in the air. He had beautifully plump round orbs, which Truck would have adored licking and sucking on for hours if they were attached to a female body. He felt a little guilty for even thinking about what that firm flesh would taste like beneath his tongue. On a white girl, those faintly visible blond hairs would have been sexy; Truck would have craved their taste on his tongue, but on Johan, Truck wished they weren’t there.
“Stick him! Stick him! Stick him!” Carson chanted and guffawed. The Italians had grown quieter — that was, Truck suspected, part of the plan: Carson had said he wanted Truck to be able to cornhole a man because it was intimidating, so presumably he did it now hoping to intimidate the Italians.
Truck took a deep breath as his dick slid into Johan’s plump ass. He guided it in with one hand until his fingers touched fine, soft ass-hair, which made him gag and look away again. It was hot and warm, and those strapping back muscles all flexed and looped and arched and rippled as Johan’s meaty booty struggled to accept Truck’s cockshaft.
Carson laughed at Truck’s reaction. “You gonna have to touch him to stick him. C’mon, man, I know you know how to do it. Ain’t you have a cellmate?”
Of course Carson knew the answer was no, but he was asking more to intimidate the Italians than for any other reason. Truck was too focused on his own body to really think of a good response.
“Yeah,” was all he said. Then he barked at Johan. “Keep yo’ ass up!” He hoped that sounded tough. Johan ignored it — might not have even realized the words were directed at him — but that was fine because his ass was at the perfect level anyway. Johan showed little reaction to anything Truck said or did, which made Truck look weak.
Or maybe nobody was paying as much attention to him as he thought. The Italians were focosed on their women’s tits. Carson had his own woman, though he kept an eye on Truck and Johan too.
He was so focused on getting through this without looking like a sissy that Truck barely noticed how good Johan’s ass felt at first. He sighed and moaned, which he managed to turn into a more macho grunt as a bolt of pleasure shot up his spine.
This was a fine ass.
He bit his lip again. His hands wrapped around Johan’s hips, uncaring of the body hairs he felt there. He growled and slammed his dick in, making an audible slapping sound as his balls hit Johan’s thighs. Truck’s muscles all flexed as ecstasy rippled through him. This felt much better than he thought. From the way other niggas talked about ramrodding men in prison, Truck thought he would struggle to get through this, and maybe if he were in prison with some sobbing snitch or whatever, it would have been a struggle.
But Johan’s ass was tight and willing, and it seemed to crave Truck’s cock just as much as Truck craved ramming it full of spasming dick.
Johan grunted, the closest thing to a word he had said in awhile. The table under him shook like it was going to collapse, but it didn’t. His ass tightened and clenched beneath Truck’s pounding, which only made even more pleasure wrack Truck’s body.
That blond hair is perfect.
Truck couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized that until now. Johan had beautiful long blond hair that went past his shoulders. Truck loved pulling on hair while he fucked girls, and it was the kind of thing a prison-thug might do, so he should have been doing it from the start. He grabbed a fistful of that fine blond hair and held on tight.
He didn’t pull hard, just hard enough to get Johan’s attention and force him to raise his head. It made Johan’s ass clench and his cock spurt precum into his hand as he stroked himself off.
“Yeah, bitch, take it!” Truck said with a growl. He smacked Johan’s ass with his free hand.
The smell of cum filled the air. At first, Truck assumed it was his own semen and that he didn’t notice his orgasm right away. But then he thought it was Johan, jacking himself off. Finally, however, Truck realized that it was the Italians, followed moments later by Carson himself.
Their women brought them to orgasm, and they guzzled down every drop of their cum. Then they tidily cleaned up their respective men. But Carson and the Italians were more focused on watching the two giants on the other side of the room. Truck’s massive brown body trembled with every thrust of his hips into Johan’s tight ass.
“Damn, Carson, yo’ man cornhole like a goddamn train!”
Truck felt Johan’s orgasm because his insides all tensed at once. His asshole clenched tightly around Truck, who groaned and moaned as the most intense orgasm of his life hit him hard. His knees buckled and he nearly collapsed.
He pulled hard on Johan’s hair, while his other hand smacked the meaty part of Johan’s back. Johan shuddered as he sprayed a wad of cum onto the floor.
Then they both gasped in sync while Truck’s balls crawled up in his sac. A spurt of cum landed inside Johan, who shuddered again. Truck’s body exploded in sweat, releasing jet after jet of semen that sprayed into Johan’s tight ass.
“Woo-hoo, way to go, Truck! I wouldn’t wanna be yo’ cellmate,” Carson said, eyeing the Italians to be sure they saw. They eyed the situation and stared but didn’t say anything, like they didn’t want to give away any reaction.
Johan let out a sound that was half-grunt and half-howl. It made the hairs on the back of Truck’s neck stand up. Truck’s muscles all relaxed at once as the last few drops of his load filled up Johan’s ass.
Truck stepped back, glad to see his hoggish meat plop out of Johan’s tight hole. He had done it, and he hadn’t embarrassed himself. He thought he even managed to look like he knew what he was doing. He snorted like a bull.
He couldn’t resist fingering Johan’s ass a bit, until his finger was white with his own cum. It made him gag, the thought of fingering a man’s asshole, but he almost always did it when fucking a woman in the ass, and he thought it seemed like the kind of thing a prison-thug would do.
Johan crooned as he accepted Truck’s pinkie finger. He bit his lip and muttered something in Swedish, his whole body struggling to accept that tiny finger. Truck just got it nasty and dripping wet, then wiped it off on Johan’s plump cheek. He snickered.
“Go’n and clean me off, bitch,” Truck said. He put his hands on his hips. He wasn’t sure Johan understood the words, but he did get a few tissues and wipe Truck’s dick off. Whether that was because Truck told him to or because he always did it, Truck didn’t know. He acted as though Johan did it under orders, and when he was done, Truck looked at his cock like he inspected it to be sure Johan had done a good job. “Fine, bitch. Get outta here. The men are still talkin’.”
Johan either didn’t understand or didn’t care about that command. He gathered up the massage tables and the bottles of warming oil that the Japanese women had left behind. Truck crossed his arms over his chest as though he had told Johan to do that.
At last Johan walked away, and Truck breathed a sigh of relief. No one else was getting dressed, so he didn’t either. He just stayed there, making sure his gleaming-wet cock was aimed in the direction of the Italians, who scrupulously avoided looking at it. His whole body shone with sweat, and his muscles were relaxed like pudding.
That was, in the end, a shockingly good massage.
Carson turned to the Italians. “Alright, well, we gots a deal, right? You gonna hold up yo’ end?”
“Course…” the Italian said, shaking Carson’s hand without taking his eyes off Truck. Truck’s cock throbbed and dripped a few final drops of jizz onto the floor, and Truck’s whole body shuddered. The Italian grimaced. “We would never do anything to… earn your ire. We will be prepared for the deal on Sunday.”

The Ranchhand

Pat is a new ranchhand working with the older, more experienced Hawthorn, who shows him a trick or two in the green barn! That’s where Pat learns how to service a man like Hawthorn!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

When Pat and Hawthorn promised they would finish the fence today, they hadn’t realized how long it would take. Pat assumed that Hawthorn was experienced at fence construction, and Hawthorn assumed likewise. Neither wanted to sound like they couldn’t get it done.
So the fence wasn’t complete until the sun had very nearly gone down. Pat breathed a sigh of relief. It was still his first year as a ranchhand at Goodman Ranch in Colorado, and he needed to prove his worth to Mister Goodman.
Hawthorn, on the other hand, had been here for six years. He was tall, broad-shouldered, tan-bodied. He that cocky swagger that all the experienced ranchhands around here had. He was much stronger and bigger than Pat in every way, and he carried himself like everyone knew he was the toughest hand in Colorado. His face was windswept like a much older man, or perhaps his face was preternaturally youthful for his age, since Pat didn’t know how old he truly was. He was grizzled and stubbled, seemingly always shaving. Pat was a great appreciator of the male form, and Hawthorn’s was remarkable.
The other problem Pat ain’t foreseen was that finishing the fence was hard work. It was simple, but it was hard, and his muscles ached by the time they was done. By then, it was getting cold as the sun went down.
They done finished the fence around the outer north pasture. They was almost three miles from the ranchhouse, and they ain’t have a horse. That was boku walking for two men who felt every step was arduous. Pat ain’t never been more tired. He wished he ain’t promise to finish the fence today (it ain’t even really need to be done until next week, so there ain’t no reason to get all rush-like).
By the time they got back to the homestead, it was fully dark. The moon hid behind the clouds in the sky. Pat was drenched in sweat. Hawthorn done took off his shirt, his broad golden-brown chest a silhouette gleaming with sweat. Pat wanted to take his shirt off too, but his deeply ingrained sense of propriety stopped him — Missus Goodman was around somewhere and could see him — and, though he ain’t want to admit it, he knew his skinny body would look weak in comparison to the bronzed blond god Hawthorn. He looked like some Renaissance artist’s impression of Apollo.
The only consolation was that Hawthorn was almost as exhausted as Pat was. He limped as they made it back to the ranchhouse. They could have gone straight to the little barn-cottage shared by Hawthorn, Pat and the other hands, but the bathing barn was closer. They both wanted a bath before a-goin’ to bed, and neither wanted to walk to the barn-cottage then walk back to the bathing-barn, then back to the barn-cottage again for bed. Pat thought his feet gonna fall off if’n he tried that.
By the time they got there, to the green bathing barn, they was both wordless, legs like jelly. Pat first sat down by the well beside the barn, and he took a long sip of cold water — luckily some kind soul done left the bucket upraised and ready. Pat drank til he could drink no more, and it made him feel better. Hawthorn was stingy with it as though he was rationing it, and then he traipsed, heavy-footed but not as exhausted as Pat, into the barn.
After another minute or two of resting his tired bones, Pat stood up and came in too. Water had spilled all down the front of him.
Hawthorn was already naked as could be, and he was using all of those ranchwork-toned muscles to unlock the pipe that connected the hot water heater to the bathtub. He done fill the heater with coal, looked like, which Pat was glad for and impressed by. He’d have been sore tuckered for sure if he had come in here and had to shovel coal before he got any hot water.
But as Hawthorn did all the labor to set it up, his great big shoulders working hard, Pat plopped down and unlaced his boots. He sighed out loud.
“Thank you, Hawthorn,” Pat said. “For… starting the heater.” Hawthorn gave a barely perceptible nod. He stood and watched the water begin flowing, boiling hot but then cooling rapidly, into the copper tub. His bare cock dangled betwene his legs. Pat watched it go, tracing with his eyes a vein that ran up the side of it. His cock was the only part of Hawthorn’s body tanned to the color of a rusty acorn, as the rest of him was more of an unroasted peanut shell color.
It felt so good to take his boots off that Pat weren’t sure he’d ever put them back on. He wiggled his toes in the breeze that blew through the barn. Then, undressed, he headed towards the bathing area. The water that ran over Pat’s body was hot, which felt good in the cold night air.
He had to share the tub with Hawthorn. The ranchhands usually took turns, since the tub was very small, but neither wanted to take the time tonight. That was embarrassing for Pat, who was aroused by the might of Hawthorn’s muscles. He greatly appreciated the majesty and power of the male form, which he painted as a hobby, when he could afford the paints and the canvas.
“I ain’t waitin’ fer ya, and I don’t ‘spect you’ll wanna wait fer me,” Hawthorn said as his naked, sweat-gleaming body stepped into the steamy water-filled tub. “So come on in, pardner. We can be bathmates.” He whooped. He had a big dimple-bedecked grin on his trail-wearied face, and he motioned for Pat to join him.
Pat ain’t have the energy to whoop along with him, nor to be self-conscious of his pale and weak body in comparison to Hawthorn’s powerful frame, so he quickly doffed the rest of his clothes and slid into the tub after Hawthorn.
It felt good to wash off the layer of sweat and grime that had built up on his body. He felt like a new man already, and all he had done was enter the water. Two bars of soap lay on a little tray beside the tub, but neither Pat nor Hawthorn made any move to grab them.
“My pa always say not to be scared of a naked man,” Hawthorn said. It sounded like he was trying to reassure hisself as much as Pat. “If’n you ain’t ashamed of yerself, you shouldn’t be worried about seeing a man without clothes on.”
Despite his words, Pat remained uncomfortable with the situation. He was used to bathing by himself. He wasn’t a prisoner, after all, why should he share a bath?
But the main reason he ain’t like it had nothing to do with Hawthorn, or even with nudity really. Pat had worked hard to get a job on Goodman Ranch, which was a nice enough place that the ranchhands got a real place to live. There were ranches in the area who hired anyone, but the hands there lived like hogs, in tents or worse, exposed to the elements, fighting off coyotes and the predations of Mexicans or Indian tribes. Might as well go back to the Old South and be a sharecropper. Pat was better than that, had worked hard to get a job somewhere nicer, and he deserved to have a bath to himself.
Not that he was complaining tonight. He wanted to get clean and flop into bed more than anything.
The sight of Hawthorn’s massive cock made Pat awkward again though — his dickskin was darker than the rest of his flesh, making Pat wonder if’n Hawthorn had been telling the truth about having Mexican blood. It was still dark in the barn, so Pat had to strain his eyes to see Hawthorn’s cock when moonlight flashed upon it. He kept his own crotch outside of the light, hoping Hawthorn wouldn’t look at it.
“So… You scared of naked men?”
“No,” Pat said. He gulped nervously as he caught a shadowy glimpse of Hawthorn stroking his dick. What was he doing?
“That’s good. You think tradition is important, Pat?”
“Yeah. Of course, tradition. Yessir,” Pat said. His heart raced. Was this it? Was he about to finally get to taste Hawthorn’s manhood?
“This ranch has got a tradition,” Hawthorn said. He came closer to Pat, so close his thick cock brushed up against Pat’s thigh. He casually wrapped one of his massive arms over Pat’s shoulders.
“Oh…” Pat held his breath. He felt so small next to Hawthorn’s bulky body, and he wondered if’n he would get that big if he continued to work as a ranchhand for his whole life. It seemed impossible now; Pat had always been skinny, but his time at Goodman Ranch had filled out his body considerably.
“You ain’t gotta join in, but you look like the kinda man who wanna do what’s right. You look like a man who behaves properly towards his elders and his betters. You gots respect, Pat, unlike a lot of them hands Mister Goodman hired this year. You ain’t a welcher.”
“No, sir.” Pat trembled.
“Why don’t you get on your knees and open your mouth, boy?” Hawthorn said. “Don’t worry. What happens between bathmates, stays between bathmates. That’s another tradition we got in these parts.”
“You sure? I don’t want them to know about it,” Pat said, gesturing towards the ranchhand house where their coworkers were no doubt drinking and carousing right now. That was what happened as soon as the sun went down every night, since Mister Goodman strictly left them alone when they were done with their work for the day. What Pat ain’t say was that he also ain’t want Hawthorn to realize that Pat wasn’t reluctant to do this at all — he just had to put on a little show of reluctance so he would seem normal.
“They ain’t nevuh gonna know, boy,” Hawthorn said. He had a cocky grin on his face, chewing on his lower lip and rubbing the scruff on his square jaw.
Pat sunk to his knees and opened his mouth. He winced, heart pounding with anxiety. Hawthorn pushed his dick past Pat’s lips. The taste of cockmeat enveloped Pat’s tongue. He closed his eyes though he ain’t couldn’t really see anything anyway in the dark barn — the only light that filtered through the clouds and the cracks in the barn ceiling illuminated Hawthorn’s cock.
He gagged at first, but it tasted delicious from the moment he first put his lips on it. It tasted like trail dust and saddle-leather Mrs. Goodman’s hog-fat soap. It tasted like sweat, salt and skin, and it made Pat both drool for more and wish he could do this again and again. His hands reached up to Hawthorn’s powerful body, making his muscles ripple beneath Pat’s fingertips.
But the flavor soon turned exciting and savory. Pat felt little pops of sensation as he explored every inch of Hawthorn’s shaft. A part of him wondered if he should do it worse, or at least pretend not to know how — what would Hawthorn think of Pat if he was an expert? But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than taste Hawthorn’s manhood from root to tip.
“Yeah, rookie, you handle a dick pretty good,” Hawthorn said, and Pat was relieved that that sounded more complimentary than derogatory. His massive muscles rippled as he felt up his own nipples with one hand. His other hand grabbed ahold of Pat’s head, holding onto the thick shock of dirty blond hair on Pat’s scalp. He used that for leverage, holding Pat in place as he worked his dick deeper and deeper.
Precum overwhelmed Pat’s senses. It added a more intense salty flavor, and it made Pat gag all over again. He gripped Hawthorn’s plump asscheeks for support.
Soon Pat’s nose pressed into the meaty part of Hawthorn’s crotch, and the coarse pubic hairs of his groin scratched at Pat’s skin. Though Pat knew he was supposed to be ashamed of this, and there was a measure of shame — he had internalized it from everyone round him — but even more than that, he was overcome with desire and lust for Hawthorn’s body. He ain’t want to look like he enjoyed it, but a part of him did treasure the sensation of Hawthorn’s thick meat sliding down his gullet. He enjoyed the thrill of being used by such a big, superior man.
A loud, spine-rattling moan escaped from Hawthorn’s lips. It sounded like he ain’t expect this to feel as good as it did, and he was trying to hide it just like Pat was. Hawthorn grunted with each thrust of his manhood down Pat’s throat.
“Damn, ya throat is-” Hawthorn’s voice tensely cracked, and he let out a moan. He laughed, making his hips flex and forcing his cock even deeper in Pat’s strained throat. “Ya throat ain’t nothin’ — ah…” He moaned again. “Nothin’ special. Any number of females at Mistah Gregarian’s cathouse can do it even better, boy-” He moaned and his knees buckled, pleasure visibly roiling his body and shooting up his spine. The more incredible it felt, the more Hawthorn tried to pretend he was underwhelmed, that he was only doing this because it was tradition, the same reason Pat was doing it.
Now that he had gotten into it, Pat deep-throated Hawthorn the best he could. He let those heavy balls slap against his face. He guzzled down every drop of salty precum that flowed into his throat. It was creamy and potent, coating his insides and seeping into his flesh.
The flavor was intense and visceral, not bad, but certainly not tasty either. That ain’t stop him from savoring the taste on his tongue though. He kept jacking until he thought Hawthorn was going to cum soon. Not wanting to end this right away, Pat moved onto lick Hawthorn’s broad, well-muscled chest.
Hawthorn allowed it at first — it seemed a little pervy to him, but he ain’t want to cum yet either. He closed his eyes and tried to relax as Pat’s slim body rubbed against his muscles, Pat’s soft hand stroking his manhood, tongue teasing his nipples.
Unable to resist his urges, Hawthorn pushed Pat back to his knees and plopped his cock right back in his throat. He sighed, able to think again — he was never able to really think when he had a hardon and wasn’t doing anything about it.
He wanted to get in that ass.
“Now bend over and grab the floor, boy. Get yer ass up,” Hawthorn said with a growl. He pulled his moist cock out and humped Pat’s face like a dog. He groaned and shuddered, his massive cock pulsating and leaking precum all over Pat’s nose and lips.
Pat winced, and his heart raced as he got in position. He grabbed the rough wooden floor, sticking his ass high in the air. He closed his eyes again, and held his breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. He left his ass as high in the air as he could.
That was a little too high. Hawthorn slapped his cheeks until Pat lowered himself to a correct height. His knees already ached from the tension of crouching in this position.
“Get down a little, boy, I ain’t that tall,” Hawthorn said with a grunt.
Then an eruption of pain in his ass distracted Pat from any soreness in his knees. The feeling exploded within him like a punch to the gut, but behind it all, he could feel a tingling pleasure emanating from his prostate. It grew in waves, from a distant chord to an overwhelming crescendo, mounting with each thrust of Hawthorn’s cock into his body. He grunted and howled, but bit his lip to cover up the sound — the barn where the ranchhands lived wasn’t that far away, so Pat ain’t want to make any noise. If he yelled loud enough here at the bathing-barn, the other ranchhands would be able to hear him.
“Sssh, it’s okay,” Hawthorn said over and over. He grabbed Pat’s upper body and lifted his tense head up, whispering directly in his ear as he worked his dick in deeper and deeper.
The smashing was intense and overwhelming, pleasure spasming up his spine. Pat could do little more than try to submit and to remind himself that when this was over, he would be accepted as a full-fledged ranchhand, not a rookie. Getting Hawthorn on his side would guarantee that Pat got all the best jobs — Hawthorn was Mister Goodman’s favorite.
It felt so good Pat cried out. Luckily his cries of bliss sounded an awful lot like a cry of pain, so Hawthorn ain’t seem to realize that Pat was enjoying this more than any man ought to. Pat had to bite his tongue to avoid begging for more.
His ass was loose enough now that Hawthorn could smash him hard, slamming his dick in and out. Pat roared in pain and bliss, and he grabbed wildly around him, getting a handful of his own trail leathers and Hawthorn’s musty brown boots.
It suddenly occurred to Pat that, if’n Hawthorn was telling the truth about this being ranch tradition, then that meant that Hawthorn must have done it as well, when he was new. That made Pat feel better. He could picture Hawthorn in this position, bent over and moaning as he got his butt smashed in by some bigger ranchhand. Hawthorn had probably been skinny and lanky then, like Pat was now.
While Pat had started off experiencing incredible pain and a dimly-felt sense of pleasure roaring underneath that, now the situation had reversed. He was in the same position, but now the pleasure roiling deep within his ass was so intense he couldn’t think about anything else, while the tortuous agony in his virgin hole seemed like a distant memory that had happened years ago to someone else.
“Alright, boy, you almost done…” Hawthorn said, his gritty Texan twang resonating in the barn. “Here I go. Close your eyes, try to think ‘bout somethin’ else. Relax yerself.”
Pat pretended to do that, but really he was so overcome by pleasure and curiosity about what was happening to him that he ain’t want to ignore it. He ain’t want to think about something else. He wanted to think about this, the incredible, awe-inspiring thing that was happening to him, a thing he had been craving since the moment he met Hawthorn. It wasn’t even done yet, and Pat already knew this was going to change his life, or at least his time here at Goodman Ranch.
Luckily it was dark, so Hawthorn couldn’t see that Pat’s hand crept into his own crotch. Pat ain’t know how controversial it would be around here that he want to pleasure himself while Hawthorn smashed him, but he wanted that more than anything.
As soon as he touched his own cock, Pat felt an orgasm hit him like a runaway bronco. He twitched and clenched down hard on Hawthorn’s dick, as though he was trying to rip Hawthorn’s meat off with his asshole. He roared and bucked, which looked to Hawthorn like he was resisting the pain of Hawthorn’s climax, but in actuality, Pat experienced the most incredible orgasm of his life. His spurted a puddle of cum onto the floor, where it immediately mixed with water and disappeared through the slats onto the ground below.
Then it was done — Hawthorn groaned and grunted, slamming his dick all the way into Pat’s ass. Pat let out a roar of pain, followed by a low, rolling grunt of pleasure.
“Here I go, boy… Good boy, takin’ my dick just like you should…”
Cum sprayed into him, a hot and thick load that Pat felt seeping into his flesh. He sighed, hoping Hawthorn ain’t notice the pleased rattling sound to his voice. It felt like a comforting internal blanket, warming up his insides and tingling like a kiss.
It seemed to take an impossible amount of time. Cum just kept pouring out of his cock, filling him up until it dripped down his thighs. Even then, Hawthorn remained still, his bulging muscles all tense and hard like iron, his craggy face still and stony. He waited until every drop of his seed had drained into Pat’s ass.
He pumped his hips one more time, and a final jet of jizz filled him up. Hawthorn’s powerful arms remained wrapped around Pat’s body, and his cock throbbed in his ass. A few drops dribbled in, then slipped out and ran down the insides of Pat’s thighs.
At last it was over. Pat ain’t know how long they stayed like that. He hadn’t even been aware of his own hand jacking himself off. He only realized what he had done because he saw his limp cock and his hand dripping with cum.
When Hawthorn pulled out, Pat let out a long, low sigh of relief. More jizz slipped and dribbled down his legs. He had enjoyed it, but still, he was glad that it was all over. Now that his ass was empty, it was exquisitely sensitive, and Pat was so overwhelmed he couldn’t do anything but collapse onto the moist wooden floor of the barn. He laid there in the tub for an eternity.
“There you go, boy,” Hawthorn said. He spat on the ground. “You can tell yer pa you did good. You showed the propuh respect, boy. That’s important ‘round here. You showed respect fer tradition.” He smiled and stretched his limp cock.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Pat said. He blushed. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that that had been the most enjoyable experience of his life. He looked down at the ground.
“Now that you done taken yer turn on the bottom,” he said. “You can always take a turn on top too, wit’ one of them new men. He gotta be newer and younger than you. That’s a rule.”
“Really?”
“That real young one, the new feller, just barely eighteen. He got ass for days. I r’commend him. You’ll have a wild time on that stallion, guarantee it,” Hawthorn said with a hollow-throated chuckle. “If’n you don’t get up in him, I will, sure as shit shines on a shingle.” He laughed so hard he slapped his thigh.
“I just might do that,” Pat said. He knew he’d be too shy though. He couldn’t come after a cowpoke in the same way Hawthorn had come after him, even if Pat technically had authority over a young pup like that new ranchhand. He was gonna have to ease into it.
Hawthorn nodded. “You gotta keep it a secret too. Mister Goodman knows, but he don’t wanna know, you pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down? That’s a strict rule we got. Don’t tell no one. Even if someone walks in on you, you gotta pretend tomorrow it ain’t happen. Tomorrow that’s what I’s gonna do. Tomorrow, I ain’t nevuh smash you, not even one time, and I’ll strike any man who say I did. You got it?”
Pat nodded. “Sure. Yeah. It’s our secret. I’ll do that-! I mean…” He hadn’t mean to sound so eager. “I’ll… Maybe I’ll do that. Some of those new guys have pretty nice asses.”
“Yes, they do. The new, young ones always do,” Hawthorn said with a grin. “That’s why it’s so fun to wreck ’em. Best part of being a cowboy, reckon.” He smacked Pat’s ass, which jiggled. Hawthorn whistled as though it was impressive to see, though the barn was still dark as night, so he couldn’t have actually seen the cheeks jiggle. “Maybe we can bathe again together sometime, boy. We can be permanent bathmates. We could do all kinda thangs togethuh.”

The Fat Bouncer

Bart’s visit to an underground poker game ends in exactly the way he was hoping — with him on his knees servicing the fat bouncer! His name is Fatty, he’s huge, he’s mean and he’s got meat to spare! Can Bart satisfy Fatty?!

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Read the whole thing here!

“I’m looking for a poker game. The dragon sips tea at dawn,” Bart said.
The liquor store was cheesy and rundown. The Chinese family running the shop glared at Bart. They nodded noncommittally when he said he was here for the poker game.
“No poker game here!” one of them said, gesturing around the shop, which had nothing but liquor, displays of cigarettes and signs advertising the lottery. Empty boxes were stacked in the back.
But they didn’t respond poorly to his question. Bart furrowed his brow. If he had walked into some random liquor store and asked for the underground poker game, he would have expected them to kick him out, to ask what he was talking about, to express confusion and dismay.
But these two men just said “no poker game here”, pointing to the floor right in front of the counter — as though Bart had asked if there was a poker game in that exact spot.
Bart was suspicious. “Is it… Is there a poker game… somewhere?”
The clerk scowled. “Presumably. Go there, wherever it is. Round in the rear of some place, I expect.” He sniffled and glanced over his shoulder.
“Aaaaaah… I see, okay,” Bart said. He bought a lotto ticket just so he wouldn’t look like a dickhead. He tucked it in his pocket as he went out into the parking lot. Nobody was around, so he grabbed an empty box by the door. He broke it down into a flat piece of cardboard, that way he wouldn’t look too suspicious to anyone driving by.
He went around to the back of the liquor store, where he saw a recycling dumpster, in which he put the cardboard. A few yards away sat a fat white man with a huge belly, a backwards baseball cap and a tattoo of Barack Obama’s smiling face extending up his neck. He nodded at Bart.
“Yo, hey, ‘sup.” He nodded. He sat near the back-door to the liquor store as though that was a normal spot to sit in. A minuscule stool was there, that’s what he sat on. It would be too tiny for a normal-sized man, but the fat man with the oversized jaw and the stoned squint upon his roundness was a thousand times too big for the stool he sat upon.
He sat near the door in the manner of a bouncer, Bart thought. He headed right for the door as though he knew what he was doing and where he was going. “Is this the door?”
“That’s a door.” The fat white thug stood. He spat on the ground, needing to lean forward to avoid spitting on his belly. He stood in front of the door. “Whatchoo need, li’l thang?”
Bart had to resist his urge to say what he really wanted — to get plowed into by this magnificent whale of a man — but he figured his best bet was to play it cool for now. “I heard there was a poker game in there. I’m Dan’s friend,” he said. “Dan Lickster”. Then, feeling like a child playing a spy-game, he leaned closer to the big man, clutched his belly and said, “The dragon sips tea at dawn.”
The fat thug nodded. “A’ight. Go’n in, sir,” he said. He opened the door for him. Bart skedaddled past, his hand lingering on the man’s massive belly.
Inside was a dimly lit basement, in the center of which was a round table with nine chairs surroundant. A bar sat in one corner of the room, and in the very middle, near the table, was a door that presumably led to the stairs going up, to the main floor where the liquor store and the surly clerk and the sale on discount gin all were.
A small handful of people milled around the table, while a single waitress brought them drinks from the bar. One person at table was a motionless, emotionless woman in a plain suit. She was the dealer, presumably. The others were players.
This was Bart’s first underground poker game. He had brought four thousand dollars, and he didn’t mind losing all of it. But he transferred two hundred bucks to a different pocket so he could keep it hidden — he might want that later.
He hoped to get in that fat thug’s pants, and he was willing to pay for it. That was the real reason he had finagled an invite to the poker game.
“Bart! Glad you could make it!” Bart’s friend Dan called for him when he came into the room. “Fatty ain’t grill you up and eat you with butter, did he?”
“I tried, but he said no,” Bart said, making the room laugh. He turned and blushed when he saw that fat thug — who apparently went by Fatty — had followed him in. He hadn’t meant to say that in front of him. Fatty blushed even redder than Bart.
Fatty had a deep booming voice. “Man… Shhh-” He cut himself off as he grabbed his dick through his jeans. It sounded like he was about to say shut your fucking face or something along those lines but stopped before he got in trouble. This was an upper-class event. He had been told not to “lower the tone”.
Fatty just waddled away, as the other players laughed at him. Bart felt a little bad for him, but then, he got the feeling Fatty was not exactly a nice guy, so he didn’t feel too bad. Besides, Bart fully intended to make it up to him later.
He was so distracted he didn’t do very well in the poker game. That was fine with Bart, it was fun just to be there. He didn’t need to do a really good job, and he didn’t mind losing the money. It was only his fifth time ever playing poker in his life, and he would have done a lot better but he forgot which hands outrank each other and bet wrong.
When the game was over, Bart hung around as the other guys said their goodbyes. He helped the dealer clean up, and then headed out into the back by the dumpsters. There was Fatty, sitting there, playing on his phone and smoking a Black’n’Mild by himself. He looked up and nodded, disinterested.
“How you doin’?” Bart asked.
Fatty frowned. “What?”
“My name is Bart.”
“Fatty.”
“Nice to meet you, Fatty,” Bart said. “So, I-“
“Look, I ain’t gonna reimburse ya losings, man,” he said. He sneered like he was being forced to be here and resented it.
“That’s fine. I was looking to give you some money,” Bart said. He affectionately patted Fatty on the shoulder. That made his arm flesh jiggle.
“What?”
“I’ve got two hundred dollars in my pocket,” Bart said. “I held it back so I wouldn’t lose it. I wanted to spend it on you.”
“What?” He stood up like he thought he was going to get in a fight. He eyed Bart suspiciously. His thick belly was right in front of Bart’s face. Bart poked it with one finger, searching for his bellybutton through the football jersey Fatty wore. Fatty frowned. “You wanna gimme money?”
“I want to pay you money for services to be rendered,” Bart said. He smiled.
Fatty furrowed his brow and said the only thing he could think of. “What?”
Bart giggled. “I want you to stick it in me, Fatty.”
“What?”
“Your dick. In here.” Bart pointed to his mouth. “Maybe elsewhere too, if you-“
“What?” His chin-fat jiggled.
“Can you stop saying that?”
“Look, man…” Fatty tottered back and forth on his squat legs. He looked around. No one was here. Everyone else had gone. Even the liquor store was closed now.
“Two hundred dollars. That’s a lotta money-“
“Ain’t nothin’ stopping me from just takin’ it,” Fatty said. He reached into Bart’s pockets. He frowned. There was no money there. Bart had hidden it in his sock.
“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t get to blow your nut-“
“I ain’t… you know… I was in prison, but I ain’t a booty bandit, dawg.”
“I know, dawg,” Bart said. “C’mon-“
“I don’t see no two hundred dollars. You foolin’. You straight-up foolin’.”
“If I take it out, you’ll steal it and you won’t stick me,” Bart said. “Come on… I’ll let you do it however you want. You can plow down on my face, you can ram into my ass as hard as you want.”
“Shit… If you don’t pay me, motherfucker… I hunt down bitches and get payment outta ‘em as a career, so don’t try it, man. I swear to Christ, I’ll steal ya mama’s heart pills if I got to. I get what I is owed,” Fatty said.
“I promise. I’ll pay.”
Fatty frowned. He leaned against the dumpster, looked away and nodded. “Go’n then.”
He apparently wasn’t going to be any more involved in this than he absolutely had to be, Bart thought, but that was okay with him. He undid the belt around Fatty’s jeans and let them flop to the ground. Then he pulled that ratty old jersey off his head. Fatty fought against it at first — he rarely took his shirt off even when plowing because he knew girls wouldn’t want to look at his manboobs — but then he let Bart do it. He was much too tall for Bart to actually lift the jersey himself, so he just got started and tried to climb Fatty’s belly. That too was plainly unrealistic, but he enjoyed the challenge and the feel of it, and he liked the way Fatty’s belly and indeed his whole body shook as Bart scaled him like a sturdy mountain.
And Fatty made a funny face, which Bart found amusing. He tolerated it at first, but then he grew annoyed and took the jersey off himself. The motion of it made his upper body flex and ripple, and it bared the furry bush of his armpits for a moment.
Then he stood there, belly protruding, as Bart licked it clean. He was hairy and heavyset by nature but fat by habit, his belly a stack of rolls and jiggles. He smelled intensely of foot sweat from head to toe, and Bart inhaled the scent while his hands and his nose explored all the crevices between his folds.
He tugged down his boxer sorts, at last baring his magnificent cock. Bart’s tongue works it way down to his belly fat, down to the underside of it, where the treasure trail of body hair grew thicker and coarser and the sweat grew funkier.
A gasp escaped from Fatty’s lips, followed by a suck on his teeth. Bart’s delicate hands reached under his belly to his cock and gave it a stroke. Fatty groaned again. He couldn’t decide if it felt good or not. He didn’t mind getting jerked off, but it was hard to focus with Bart’s tiny tongue snaking all over his folds of fat.
By chance Bart glanced up, and the intense look on Fatty’s face, a penetrating stare like he had spied something greatly displeased him, made Bart chortle. When that only magnified the look on Fatty’s mien, Bart’s chortle choked into a chuckle, and he turned that into a cough. He quaked before Fatty’s bigness.
“You makin’ fun of me?” Fatty asked. Bart shook his head. “You gettin’d dared by ya buddies? Is it like… a scavenger hunt?”
Bart shook his head again and again. He sucked on Fatty’s fleshy manboobs, playing with his nipples and stroking his dick to full erection. “I like big boys. I like men, and I appreciate the bigness of… well, big ones. That’s all. I think you’re a magnificent specimen.” He licked a trail down Fatty’s belly, which had more tattoos on it — gang tats, it appeared. He slurped the sweat that clung to each tattoo. There was Gothic lettering that read MONTANA over his belly, and an American flag over his heart. A gun was tattooed on the side of his belly, pointed down towards his cock.
“Man…” Fatty grunted. He still felt maybe he was being made fun of. Maybe there was a hidden-camera? Was this some sort of Making-Fun-of-Fat-Men reality show? Surely that would be illegal, he thought. He didn’t want to look self-conscious, so he didn’t stop Bart, but he kept looking around for hidden cameras.
Then he grunted and threw his head back so fast it slammed painfully against the dumpster behind him. His whole body jiggled. Bart clutched those big round asscheeks as he plowed down on Fatty’s cock. It was limp and not especially big at first, like a lot of fat guys, but it quickly firmed up and turned into a nearly foot-long monster, all knobbly and veiny. Bart gurgled on it merrily. He looked up and tried to make eye contact with Fatty, but he looked everywhere except down.
That felt better than expected. He didn’t get sucked off a lot these days. Most women wouldn’t give him the time of day, and he had sort of forgotten how hot and moist and inviting it was to feel a throat swallow his meat down to the root. It sent a shiver of bliss up his spine, and Fatty’s whole body shook, or really his spine shimmied and the shimmy was magnified by his layers of fat until his whole body wobbled like underset jello.
His dick was moist to begin with, soaked with sweat from his underbelly and from being cooped up on a humid night in his jeans. Bart sucked all the sweat down, slurping it, gurgling and giggling as he moaned — he loved how it made Fatty’s whole body shake and jiggle.
Fatty snorted and huffed like a surprised donkey. His eyes alternating between wide open and excited and the dull-eyed stoner squint he had throughout the poker game, though he’d been standing there throughout, he clearly hadn’t been smoking any weed, so Bart didn’t get how he could look stoned. Maybe that was just the way he looked, or maybe he smoked so much weed it stayed with him.
He tried to reach up to play with Fatty’s manboobs, but Fatty began plowing into his face, and it was difficult to control his hands. Bart flailed, going back to holding onto those enormous asscheeks for support. Fatty’s balls slapped against his chin, and Fatty had to hold his belly up to give Bart easy access to it.
“Hmmmm….” Bart murmured as he gagged on the hard dick jamming into his throat. He had to signal to Fatty a couple times before he pulled away, slapping his fat dick over Bart’s face. When Fatty let go of his belly, it flopped onto Bart’s head, nearly knocking him over. “You taste so good…”
“You serious?”
“I’m deadly serious. I wanna lick your ass. Can I lick your ass? I wanna taste it!” Bart giggled, blushing at the shocked look on Fatty’s face — who hadn’t looked at him since this started, not until now. He checked out Bart as though to see if he was joking.
But Fatty smirked and turned around. He’d never gotten a rimjob. He never even thought it was an option — who would want to lick his fat ass? Not a girl, he knew that.
He gripped the side of the dumpster like he was being searched by a cop. He spread his legs wide, frowning a little when he felt Bart’s delicate tongue plant on his left asscheek. It was cold, not particularly arousing and a little ticklish. Fatty just grunted. He spread his asscheeks, and they parted like a massive yellow cock being splattered in slow motion.
Bart licked up and down that enormous left cheek, which rippled flabbily as he massaged it with both hands. Bart could have fit his entire body in Fatty’s asscheeks, he thought with an aroused giggle. The smell was so potent it made Bart let out a moan of desire.
He had to use both hands to spread Fatty’s cheeks and bare his crack. The smell of sour sweat was intense here. There was plenty of funky hair lining the crack and around his tight hole. Bart didn’t need to ask if it was a virginal asshole — it was as tight as could be. He rubbed one finger over it, but then Fatty swore and said, “No fingers! Nah! You said lick! You can lick it!”
“Okay, sorry,” Bart said. It was impossible to finger it anyway — Bart needed to use both hands to keep Fatty’s cheeks separate. It was like trying to pull apart a mass of jello that hadn’t fully set yet. Bart sucked on each bit of flesh that seeped through his fingers as he dove in between those cheeks.
Finally he got his tongue in Fatty’s tight hole, and Fatty let out a howl that sounded overconfident — like he wanted Bart to think he’d done this before and wasn’t impressed. But Bart could tell from the way his asshole clenched around Bart’s tongue that he was turned on, and that he wanted more.
Bart plowed into him with his tongue. Soon he couldn’t hold back the sea on those asscheeks, and he let go, allowing all that flabby hefty to envelop him so Bart’s entire head was buried in his ass.
Fatty glanced behind himself and couldn’t help but guffaw in shock — and a little disgust — at the sight. Bart looked like he had been beheaded by Fatty’s ass, or like his head was actually climbing into his backside. Fatty couldn’t believe how good it felt either. It was a little uncomfortable, but Bart’s tongue invaded his ass and went right for his juicy prostate, slurping up all the sweat and assfluids that seeped out of him and onto his tongue.
The taste was sour and salty, like cum but solid and fleshy. Bart slurped noisily. He reached between Fatty’s legs to try to jack him off, but that proved impossible — Fatty was just too wide and too thick. Instead his hands roamed over the bigness, the endless folds of Fatty’s mountainous asscheeks.
Finally Bart pulled out and raced to bend over. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen. He got his face down on the asphalt, his ass as high as he could manage. Fatty’s corpulent body kept undulating as he rubbed his ass over the spot where Bart’s face had been moments ago.
Fatty turned around to see why the rimjob had stopped. He saw Bart bent over and grimaced. Bart’s ass was smooth and tight, round as could be, pretty much the exact opposite of Bart’s ass.
He’d never plowed into a girl with a nice tight ass like that. He’d plowed into some big females, some of them very sexy, and he’d gotten in a few asses. But none of them had a plump bubble-butt like Bart.
Fatty kept a sour grimace on his face because he didn’t want Bart to think he really enjoyed this — it would make it seem like Fatty couldn’t land a real woman. He spread Bart’s cheeks with his greasy fingers, and slid his cock in. He again had to lift his belly up to keep it out of the way.
His belly then flopped onto Bart’s ass, while Bart backed up onto Fatty’s cock. There was a burst of pressure and pain, which Bart accepted with a grimace. There was always this difficulty in getting plowed into by fat guys, whose bellies weighed Bart down and added power to their penetrations.
Fatty was oblivious though. He just gripped Bart’s cheeks, plowing into him on autopilot, his cock ramming into Bart’s ass as hard as he could. He’d never been able to fuck a girl like this, so lots of pent-up horniness came out at once. He moaned loud and slammed into Bart’s ass. He was surprised at how easy it was, his cock just slid right in and instantly his whole body quaked as a jolt of pleasure rocked his corpulent frame.
“Shit!” Bart shouted. “Goddamn, get it deep in me! Big boy, do me hard!” He was rocked back and forth by the power of Fatty’s gyrations, his heavy body grinding him into the asphalt.
Bart found it difficult to remain on all fours with Fatty plowing into him with all his mind. He lowered himself first to his elbows and knees, and then finally, gradually, he was crushed onto the cold asphalt. Fatty laid atop him, scrunching him up underneath that hairy belly.
A long, low orgasm erupted in Bart, extended by the fact that he was crushed on the ground, so he was unable to touch his own cock. He could barely even breathe. All he did was flail as the most intense orgasm of his life ran through him.
Hot breath condensed on the back of his neck as Fatty gasped and snorted like a horse. Fatty’s whole body rippled, and he groaned right into Bart’s ears. “Damn, bitch, shit, you fuckin’ slut, don’t move, don’t move, just take it, okay, bitch, damn…” He exhaled breathily on Bart’s head.
At last he was done. He lifted his head — letting Bart breathe a bit — as he poured his cumload into Bart’s ass. Fatty had never felt anything like this. He shot the biggest load of his life, wad after wad of creamy, sticky juices flowing into Bart’s asshole.
Bart accepted every drop and would have begged for more if he could recover his breath. He soon rolled over, and Fatty went with him, wrapping Bart up in his arms so he could keep plowing in. Bart squirmed and writhed in his grasp.
As soon as Bart touched his own cock, he finally shot his own wad as well, spraying it over the asphalt and even onto his own face. Bart cried out. “Goddamn, Fatty!”
Fatty chuckled, his own orgasm ending though he didn’t remove his cock yet. He just watched Bart squirm and climax as well, his lithe back tensing up. Fatty let Bart slide right off his slick belly. Every inch of his body riding on Fatty’s dick sent new spasms of ecstasy to course through Bart’s veins. Fatty too found sparks of sensation to arise from his sensitive shaft as Bart dismounted it, and both men let out cavernous moans of relief when Bart finally popped off Fatty’s knob.
Bart sighed, exhausted, red-faced and sweaty — covered in Fatty’s sweat as well as his own. He sprawled out on the asphalt. Jizz dribbled out and flowed down his thighs in tiny rivulets.
After a minute or two of heavy breathing, Bart rested his head on Fatty’s belly. His tongue snaked into his bellybutton. Fatty chuckled. Bart stroked his limp dick with one hand. It was hot and tender, soft as warm butter, and Bart’s squeezing of it made Fatty shudder with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
“Your dick is great,” Bart said. He reached into his sock and pulled out the money. “Here you go.”
Fatty nodded, his eyes glazed over. He yawned. “Shit, man…” He had forgotten he couldn’t find the money, so he didn’t pay attention to where Bart pulled the cash from.
“Is it okay if I lay here on your belly for awhile?”
Fatty nodded again. “Whatever floats your boat, man,” he said. He took the backwards baseball cap off because it got in the way of resting his head on the asphalt. “Shit… You wanna pay me again later? I’ll come see you some more next week.”
“Hmmm… Maybe. I’ll give you my phone number,” Bart said. “But I travel a lot.” He licked the valley between Fatty’s manboobs. Then he kissed Fatty on the neck. Fatty stiffened up — that felt too pervy for him, but he allowed it for a few seconds before gently pushing Bart way.
Then Fatty sat up. “Shit, okay, I’ll call you. Don’t tell no one though. If anyone asks… tell ‘em I sell you meth.” He paused. “Not the police, I mean.”
“Sure, okay,” Bart said with a satisfied sigh. “Whatever you want.”

The Fat Thug

Bart is desperate for giant alpha males, and he may have met his fill in a dirty old traphouse. There’s drug dealers galore in there, but Bart has eyes only for Thickie Large, a fat Blood with manmeat worth seeking out! Can Bart land this whale?

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Bart sat in his car working up the nerve to go in there. He was pretty sure his plan would work, it was just anxiety-provoking. He was a puny white guy about to go into a crackhouse, one that was probably full of guys who were only interested in buying or selling crack. Bart wasn’t there for that, so they were going to be annoyed.
Still, he had a plan he was confident in.
He took a deep breath and headed in. The Broad Avenue traphouse was legendary, everybody in town knew where it was and not to ever go in. It had been raided by the police a half-dozen times in the last year alone. They never caught anything or anybody of note. A couple crackheads, a few guys with open warrants for petty bullshit.
The yard out front was brown and overgrown, not having been mowed in years, most likely. It was sad to think this was a nice family’s house once upon a time, probably. Children’s toys were scattered around the lawn. That had to be recent, not a relic of the nice family that lived here years ago, the toys were too new, some crackhead had emptied them. Probably stole an Amazon package off a porch and threw the toys on the lawn because they can’t be pawned.
The home itself was wracked with graffiti and big brown stains of what Bart hoped was mud. The door was unlocked (and indeed, being off the hinges, was un-lockable). Inside it smelled like marijuana smoke, which surprised Bart, as he was expecting crack. He wasn’t aware that crack didn’t have a very strong scent and was easily overpowered by the high-grade marijuana that was recently smoked upstairs.
That’s where Bart went. He figured his man was probably up there. A few of the sallow-faced men and semi-conscious women on the ground floor glared at him, but none reacted. They seemed to be pretty out of it. Bart wasn’t sure they registered him at all.
On the second floor, he went straight to the room at the end of the hall, where he could hear deep-throated voices talking. This is where the floral, mephitic plumes of acrid blunt smoke were coming from. He went straight in. Four black men stood as though ready to attack as soon as he opened the door.
When they saw that it was a flamboyant white man who was both short and skinny, they hesitated. Bart grinned and giggled like a slutty girl, which made the four black men furrow their brows. Bart said, “Hey, guys, my name’s Bart.” He held his hand out as though he expected the guys to kiss the back of his hand. They didn’t.
“Yo, what’s up, boi?”
“What’re you doin’?”
“You crazy-ass fool, you ‘bout to get yaself shot-!”
The first three to talk were Ratty, Nailboy and Dumphry. They were all Bloods in good standing, as evidenced by the tats. Only Dumphry’s tattoos were visible though. He was heavyset but strong as hell, thick as cold oatmeal. Ratty and Nailboy were skinny. Ratty was outright ugly, like a smashed dog biscuit. Nailboy was handsome and eager and cute like an abandoned puppy, and he kept sucking on his teeth like he was too good for literally everything happening around him.
None of those were Bart’s preference. He adored men of a certain physique, and that physique was not the handsome prettyboy, six-packed studs, muscular bodybuilding types, and definitely not the malnourished crackhead look — Ratty looked like that — Bart liked men of largeness.
Men of extra largeness.
He was after the fourth Blood hanging out with the other three, the biggest of them all, a few inches taller and much heavier than them. “Thickie Large”. ‘Antoine Wall’ was his real name, but everyone called him Thickie, and he had even released one single under the name Notorious F.A.T. He was six and a half feet tall, and he was fat. Not just a little chubby, he was outright fat, with a belly that hung over his crotch and thick flabby arms.
He was also very strong, easily the strongest of the four, his muscles were just buried beneath that deliciously wide body. He had this dry, raspy voice that turned Bart on so much he didn’t catch what Thickie said. It was easy to not hear it, it was oddly hummy, he talked like a cartoon moth, and you could hear his heavyset frame in his voice, like his words ricocheted around in his chest on their way out.
“I heard a rumor that you guys could help me with something,” Bart said as he came into the room with a grand swoop to his walk. That got their attention. Most people who came in here tried to come across as tough and dangerous, not flighty and effiminate. That was part of his plan, throwing them for a loop so they’d be on edge and more likely to agree to his request, or at least refrain from robbing him long enough for him to make the request.
One of them scoffed. “Yeah, man, we got whores, but you can’t just come bustin’ in here like this.”
“We got what you want-“
“You still gonna get busted up-“
“Whiteboy crazy!”
The only one of them who didn’t say anything was Thickie Large, who brimmed and bristled under that shade-casting baseball hat he always wore. He shifted his weight between his feet as he puffed on his blunt, hotboxing the cherry like a madman. He opened his mouth full of smoke, then inhaled, then exhaled slowly through his open mouth. He didn’t listen to his niggas talk heavy smack at the whack-ass whiteboy who came through the traphouse like a foolish-ass whiteboy.
“Yo, what?”
“You lookin’ for a female?”
“I got a fat bitch at home, she’ll rock ya socks off, white man. She’ll suck yo’ dick so good you turn into a nigga,” Nailboy said.
“You want crack?”
“No, no,” Bart said. He’d been trying to get a word in. His plan to attract attention by being eccentric and thereby get them to shut up long enough for him to make an offer was not working. “Wait, guys-“
“I got pills. Whatchoo want?”
“I got a hundred bucks,” Bart blurted out. He blushed as they at last fell silent, which was mainly sparked by Ratty realizing the blunt rotation was halted because Thickie Large was hogging it. Ratty swore at him and took the blunt. That interrupted the convo long enough for Bart to explain at last. “I’m not looking for a woman. I want to jack one of you off.”
A long pause filled up the mouse-scented room. Outside sirens blared as a parade of cop cars went past, the sound of which seemed loud because one of the windows was shattered. The four thugs all exchanged looks, all except Thickie Large who stood there like he hadn’t heard that.
Then at last, Thickie Large spoke. “Yo, what?”
“Whiteman a freak.”
“He prolly was a prison bitch, got a taste fo’ nigga meat. It happens. That’s science,” said Ratty. “Shit, fo’ a hundred bucks, I let you take a swing on my meat too, boi.” He grabbed his crotch. He lowered his sagging jeans enough to bring out a big dick. It was kind of knobbly and unpleasant, like a Fijian warclub.
“Hmmm… You’re getting close,” Bart said. He placed one hand on Thickie’s arm. “But I’m only willing to pay for the thickest of meats.” He giggled as they all erupted in whoops and hollers. Thickie himself seemed to be more surprised than anyone else. His eyes opened wide, and his lips parted but only a dull croak came out.
“Ah, shit!”
“What? That don’t make no sense!”
“What’s wrong wit’choo?” Dumphry lifted up Thickie Large’s shirt, revealing his broad Santa-like belly. Dumphry slapped his bellyfat to make it jiggle. “You crazy!”
“This is fucked up,” Nailboy said. “Man, boi, hey, whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout?” He took his shirt off and made Bart look at his perfectly etched body and powerful muscles. His pecs rippled, and he flexed first one bicep, then the other, then both. “You want him? You want that flabby ass? Instead of this?”
“Hmm-hmm-“
“You crazy,” Ratty said. He took his dick out again. “You want thick meat, I got thick meat-“
“You got one thick cut of meat,” Bart said. He patted Thickie’s belly. “But he’s made out of thick meat. He’s thick all the way through.” He looked up at Thickie. “So what do you say? A hundred bucks?” Bart had actually brought two hundred, but Ratty had thrown a ‘hundred dollars’ out there as a reasonable amount, so Bart went with that. He fully expected them to rob him at the end of this anyway.
The room got quiet. Thickie was flush. He looked like he was unused to being flustered. He glared at his friends. “Y’all get out.”
“Man, Thickie-“
“I say get out,” Thickie said.
They all grumbled a bit but walked out into the hallway. Thickie looked down at Bart. “You came in here lookin’ for some fat dick? There’s fat guys downstairs. Or was you lookin’ just for me?”
“You mean the crackheads? I’m not just into random fat dudes,” Bart said. He dropped to his knees. “I want you. I saw you selling weed at that frat party last weekend. They said I could find you here.”
“Man, they shouldn’t be — I ain’t admittin’ I was sellin’ weed, nosir, don’t you think that.” Thickie was about to take his dick out, then he eyed Bart suspiciously and ripped his shirt and pants off to look for a wire. “Those motherfuckers shouldn’t be spreadin’ my personal information. I’ll have to have a talk with them.”
Bart smiled. “Okay. Yeah, sure. Cool. I’m not a cop. I’m not wearing a wire. Would a cop do this?” He crawled on his knees to Thickie’s backside, jammed his nose right in Thickie’s buttcrack, through his jeans. He inhaled loudly. “Cops don’t do that kinda shit, right?”
Thickie hesitated. “I dunno, man.” He paused. “This some nasty booty bandit shit.” Thickie lit a cigarette.
But that still wasn’t a no, so Bart just went ahead and played with the thick cock bulged in Thickie’s filthy jeans. Thickie ignored it and smoked his cigarette. Just like with his blunt, he let his mouth fill with smoke and opened it, then inhaled the smoke. This time he exhaled the smoke through his nostrils like an angry bull, while his cock throbbed beneath his jeans and under Bart’s soft touch. Hearing no objection, Bart undid Thickie’s belt.
His jeans dropped, and Bart pulled his boxers down. Thickie’s belly sagged thickly over his cock, which he hadn’t seen in years without a mirror. Bart first licked up some of the sweat off his big belly, then licked a trail down his cock, from root to tip.
“Damn, whiteboi,” Thickie said with a nervous tremor to his chuckle. He swayed his ass back and forth as Bart clasped it with both hands. Each cheek was as big as Bart’s entire upper body.
His dick got hard quickly in Bart’s mouth. It was veiny and strong, firm, throbbing. Bart loved the musky flavor. He stuck his tongue out and ran it up and down the shaft. He was quiet at first, still unsure if Thickie even wanted him to be doing this. Thickie showed little reaction the whole time.
But after a minute or two, Bart stopped trying to be quiet, and he choked up mouthloads of spit that ran down Thickie’s dick into his unkempt bush. Thickie at last straightened his back. He grunted. He murmured something incomprehensible on the underhush.
“Ah, shit, Thickie’s doin’ it! I hear that!”
“Oh, yeah, stick me in my mahjuicy ass!” Ratty was doing a Thickie-impression. “I wanna take that dick! I love white dick in mah ass!”
“Yeah, lemme suck on your belly-rolls!”
“Hmmm, double-D titties!”
They were laughing out in the hall, so loud as they banged on the door and stomped on the floor that it sounded like they were falling over themselves. Bart had to chuckle too, especially when Thickie wrinkled his nose. Thickie tried not to react.
He slipped his dick deeper into Bart’s mouth. Thickie was ginger at first, worried he would be unable to get hard, or that it would feel too much like a man. And, he thought, there was something clinical about it — it felt good in a strictly physical way, but Thickie remained intensely aware of the fact that it was a sin as he saw it.
Thickie shook his head. He didn’t want to think that. One of the old heads in his neighborhood last year had gone on a drunken rant about how punks in prison mouthed him off so good. He said there was nothing better than a prison wife going to town on your cock.
Precum streamed down Thickie’s shaft. He was surprised at how good this felt. It definitely was better than any woman’s blowjob. He grunted, not wanting it to be obvious how good it was to the guys outside the room.
“Yo, whiteboi, you cummin’ yet? Is Thickie swallowin’ ya load just like he likes?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Thickie roared, responding to them for the first time. He pounded on the door, which was already broken, so his fist went right through it. Splinters flew, and his friends jumped back. Then they crowded to poke their head into the hole and laugh at Thickie.
“Lookit his ass shake. Shit! Man, he got a godzilla-butt!”
“Hey, freak! Why do you like fat dudes?”
Bart pulled off Thickie’s dick and slapped himself over the face with it. Precum kept flowing. “Hmmm… They taste so good, boys… I already talked about this-“
“But that don’t make no sense! I am way better than him!”
“Hey! Shut the fuck up!” Thickie shouted. He backed up so his hefty body blocked the hole in the door.
Thickie pounded on the door behind him, but Bart had an idea. He crawled after Thickie and licked a trail up his massive thigh. He sucked on the flesh of his left buttcheek and spread his cheeks, aiming his big brown hole right at the opening in the door.
“Ah, shit! Thickie’s asshole!”
“Damn, he got fat ass! He got ass for weeks!”
Bart pushed his own head into the hole then, and in moments he had his tongue in the crack of Thickie’s ass, close enough to the opening in the door that Thickie’s friends could tell what he was doing. Thickie laughed, making his whole ass shake around Bart’s tongue.
No one had ever licked Thickie’s ass before. He could get girls often enough that he wasn’t ashamed of his sexual experiences — though he did pretend to get laid a lot more often than he did — but he had never even tried to get a girl to lick his ass. He figured big guys like him just couldn’t do that, what girl would ever do it? Someone like Nailboy who was all muscle and sinew and seemed to secrete his own cologne? He probably got rimjobs all the time, or at least he claimed to.
But Thickie had never had a rimjob. So he was surprised when he felt Bart’s tongue push into his hole, and he was even more surprised when it felt good. He had assumed it was like ball-licking — a nice idea, but not really very much fun for more than about two seconds.
Instead, however, a surge of primal pleasure ran over Thickie and made him grunt. He had to stay quiet because he was unsure what sounds he would make and thought his friends would make fun of him. He couldn’t keep himself from emitting a sort of a low thrumming sound that slowly turned into a howl.
“Shit, Thickie, you alright?”
Thickie grunted. He dropped to all fours, unable to control himself. He jutted that giant ass up high in the air. His friends guffawed at the sight of Bart’s tiny twink head being swallowed up into Thickie’s sweat-choked crack.
Bart’s tongue explored every crevice of his ass. It tasted deliciously funky, and Bart loved that there was plenty of meaty flesh. He kept licking and somehow he was always licking some unlicked swathe of man-meat, suckling on the sweaty hairs that clung to his ass-cheeks.
When Bart sensed Thickie getting near his orgasm, he stopped. Thickie’s whole body kept undulating for a minute as though he hadn’t noticed Bart slip out of his ass. Bart crawled forward, sliding underneath Thickie, who was still on all fours.
Bart raised his ass. “You ready to get in my ass? Please?”
“Hell yeah,” Thickie said.
“You can pound really hard,” Bart said with a giggle. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the guys out in the corridor. It sounded like they were on the phone now, telling everyone they knew what was happening.
Thickie grunted. “I know, boi. If I’m gonna ram, you best believe I’s doin’ it hard.” He lifted his upper body up. He had to hold onto his belly and heft it above Bart’s tiny body. He used one finger to loosen Bart’s hole, ramming it all the way in — he remembered only as he did so that he had decided he wouldn’t do that, that it would be too gross to ass-finger a man. He thought he was going to vocally tell Bart so, that way his friends would hear him be tough and macho.
But he had forgotten, so he just rammed one finger in and chuckled at Bart cringing. He was just going to have to pretend it was normal to stick a finger in a man’s ass. Bart oomphed and clawed at the ground. Thickie’s finger was thick and stubby, and it made Bart’s whole body cry out in both pain and desire.
His ass loosened. Thickie gripped it with both hands, to separate Bart’s cheeks and wedge his dick in. He was used to struggling with his belly, which sometimes got in the way when he plowed in. Normally he was self-conscious because he was never sure how much his females were okay with him being a big man. So it was nice to stick his dick in someone who genuinely liked it. He flopped his belly onto Bart’s back and forced him into a convenient position.
Then he drove his cock right in. “Damn, boy, damn… Keep it loose.” He grunted. When it became clear Bart wasn’t going to make him stop, Thickie came at him from an angle just to make Bart cry out and squeal some more. He wanted his friends to hear that.
Bart didn’t care about the pain. He loved the feel of a massive cock inside him while an even more massive man pounded away from above. The difference in size was even more apparent now that they were actually plowing, because Bart was dwarfed by the belly above his head.
Thickie had a long dick that jabbed deep into Bart’s guts, stimulating his prostate and sending him to the edge of orgasm. Thickie loved it. He would later tell his friends it was “only okay” to save face. But he liked that he didn’t need to worry about minimizing how much his girl felt his belly. He could just plant down on him, grind his dick in deep and fuck as hard as he could manage.
“Shit, fuck yeah! Get it in me!” Bart called out. He clawed at the floor beneath him, and Thickie plowed into so hard he slammed Bart into the floor loudly enough that the crackheads downstairs heard and wondered what was happening. None of them got up to check though.
Thickie used both of his arms to keep Bart in position. One fist pinned down his back, while his other kept his hips up.
This had turned out both better and easier than Thickie ever thought possible. He groaned as he slammed his dick all the way in — no girl had ever let him get this deep in her guts. He vibrated, grinding, ramming his dick in every direction to hit every corner of Bart’s insides.
The pain was extraordinary, overshadowed only by the intense bliss that coursed through Bart’s veins. This was the part of getting plowed into by chubby guys that Bart adored, the nasty final rutting orgasm.
He barely needed to touch his own dick to climax. Bart shot his wad onto the floor beneath himself, but Thickie didn’t even notice. He was busy reaching his own orgasm.
“Damn, freak, you takin’ it good! Swallow up e’ry drop, boi!”
Creamy hot cum sprayed within Bart’s ass. Bart howled so loud crackheads outside the house woke up. Bart craned his head around as he felt cum flow into him, so he could suck sweat off Thickie’s fleshy pecs. His muscle flexed beneath the thick layer of padding there, and his whole body jiggled against Bart’s back.
His orgasm went on for what felt like forever. His balls drained into Bart’s ass, wad after after filling him up and dripping onto the scummy crackhouse floor. It was creamy and copious, and the heat of it seeped into Bart’s flesh.
“Shit…” Bart grunted. A long, low moan came out of him, as Thickie’s cock throbbed deep in Bart’s body. Each throb of the shaft sent a new wave of pleasure to wrack Bart’s tender body, and Bart twitched each time.
“Damn, boi, you done real good,” Thickie said. He chuckled. “You wanna be a whore for me? I turn you out on the street, make some good money.”
“No, thanks. I got my own thing going on,” Bart said. He didn’t want to reveal that he spent a lot of money chasing down chubby guys like Thickie (he thought, accurately, that Thickie would make him take more money out at an ATM if he knew how wealthy Bart was). Bart sighed as Thickie finally pulled out, his cock audibly plopping.
Thickie chuckled and slipped his finger back in there. It was deliciously disgusting, he thought, and no girl would ever let him do it. Bart squirmed beneath Thickie’s stumpy middle-finger, which made a big mess of cum over Bart’s asscrack.
“Here, lick that clean,” Thickie said. He shoved his finger in Bart’s waiting mouth, and groaned in both disgust and delight as Bart gladly sucked it clean.
His assjuice and cum was funky and musky, a bit slimy but oh-so-good. Bart moaned again and bucked.
Then at last, it was over. Thickie let go and stood. He didn’t want to do anything that would look too pervy, so he wasn’t about to keep messing around with Bart. Bart wasn’t going to let this stop until Thickie made him stop.
So Bart again kissed Thickie’s thigh and caressed his asscheeks. He got in the way until Thickie tried to pull his pants up, then swiped at Bart’s head. Bart giggled and stood.
Before he could say anything, however, Thickie grabbed for Bart’s pants. He went through his pockets. He took the full two-hundred dollars out of Bart’s wallet. Then he took the emergency fifty Bart also kept in there. “Thanks, whiteboi. You can get out now.”
Bart hesitated and stroked Thickie’s barrel-shaped chest. Thickie scowled at him then, and feinted like he was going to punch. Bart ran for the door.
Thickie’s friends were serious-faced, like they expected to see his dead body in there. Bart just smiled. “Hey, guys, nice to see ya!” As he walked past, he grabbed Nailboy’s dick in his jeans — Nailboy licked his lips and offered it to Bart, as seductive as he could muster, when Bart walked past. Nailboy grunted and frowned but didn’t say anything. Bart giggled. “If you ever gain like a hundred pounds, gimme a call.”

The Rugby Jock

Lachlan is a rugby jock promised a happy ending in a massage parlor, but he assumed he’d have a woman as a masseuse… Instead he has a twinky American masseur who is willing and ready to give Lachlan a mouth he can ride like an unruly kangaroo! Can Lachlan handle this masseur’s welcoming manhood?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

“Bloody hell, mate, this place is fancy as!”
Lachlan smiled and played along with his teammates, but he was nervous. The entire minor-league rugby league side he joined a few months ago were on a trip to a match together, and Coach Marshall purchased them all a massage… with a “happy ending”. Lachlan knew what that meant. It made him very nervous, but he didn’t dare back out. The team had been acting like “thirsty yobbos” lately, in Coach Marshall’s words, and he thought the happy ending would help settle them down.
He had only ever rooted two sheilas, and one of them barely counted — he shot his load after just two minutes inside her, and that was how he lost his virginity when he (and she) were eighteen years old. He was deeply embarrassed by that premature ejaculation, though lucky his then-girlfriend was also a virgin and didn’t know it was supposed to take longer than that. The other woman he rooted had been his girlfriend for nearly two years, but that was all over now. No one on the team knew how few women he had ever fucked.
But now he was very worried that his lack of experience would show.
What if he didn’t know how to satisfy the masseuse? What if she made fun of him for cumming too soon? He’d look like an idiot if that happened, if even a root rat made fun of his sexual prowess. His teammates would never let him live that down.
Somebody clutched his ass — Ian, one of his teammates — and cackled as he went down the line doing the same to each player. Ian was a larrikin, so that wasn’t surprising. He thought it was funny to put chilli powder in someone’s jockstrap. Which it was. Lachlan was too nervous to find anything funny though. Ian’s fingers gripped Lachlan’s round asscheeks hard, and his finger even dropped beneath Lachlan’s shorts, fingering his sweaty crack.
“Rack off, mate,” Lachlan murmured.
“Who else is hard already?” Ian asked with a big cocky grin across his face. “I could nearly ram Lachlan here if he wasn’t such a hairy bastard.” To prove his point, Ian attempted at Lachlan’s ass, humping his still-clothed cock at Lachlan’s asscrack, which was cradled by powder blue rugby shorts. Ian gripped Lachlan’s waist and moaned out an exaggerated orgasm. Lachlan blushed and yelped, pushing Ian away. He really was hard, Lachlan could feel it, Ian’s cock, pulsating against the meat of Lachlan’s ass.
“Ah shit, mate! Ian’s gonna ram the new guy!”
But Lachlan didn’t complain about it. If Ian knew you were bothered by something, he’d never stop doing it. Second, Ian had the biggest cock on the team and was always waiting for an opportunity to whip it out — he always went nuddy first in the locker room, and he put his clothes on last, searching for any reason to go running through the gym or across the field, uncut cock waving in the wind. Lachlan just wanted to be left alone. He wasn’t embarrassed of his cock, but he didn’t like showing it off either.
“I’m about to bust too,” Lachlan said, forcing a grin on his face as he turned around, faced Ian and humped him back — since they were face to face, their bulging shorts just bumped into each other. Lachlan was still soft, and his jockstrap-cradled cock and balls brushed up against Ian’s rock-hard manhood. The feel of his erect cock made Lachlan shudder with disgust. At least, he thought, they weren’t all gangbanging the same trashy bogan together, which other rugby teams did heaps.
Then a beautiful Asian woman appeared from the back. The whole side jumped back to their seats and st properly, as though the Asian woman was their kindergarten teacher. They exchanged nervous looks, and more than one of them audaciously checked out her ass, which was plump and juicy, or so it looked to Lachlan. He was one of those who checked her out. How could he not? She made his dick tingle.
She must have noticed the rugby jocks all checking out her ass and the bosom stretching the fabric of her top, but she didn’t complain or let on in the slightest. She wrinkled her nose and scrunched her eyes at the team, taking them in one by one. She reviewed a clipboard with some forms on it with Coach Marshall, then she cast her judgmental eyes over the players once again. She blushed when she got to Ian, who must have made some kind of face at her, maybe licked his lips. Ian was like that, as massive flirt, seemingly unable to prevent himself from doing it. It was the only way he knew to interact with women. Everybody on the team knew not to let him be alone with their girlfriends.
After going over the rules of the spa, that Asian woman called for whoever was first. She was joined by a thin, effeminate man whose name-tag read ‘Avery’. But Avery faded to the back of Lachlan’s perception, as he had eyes only for the pretty woman.
After a few moments of silence, the other players erupted in excited whispers and audible horniness. It was Ian who piped up first. “Seniority! I’m goin’ first,” Ian said, running past the others. He shook his ass in Avery’s direction, or maybe in Lachlan’s direction but Avery was in front of him, so that was also Avery’s direction.
Lachlan was both annoyed and relieved. It seemed everyone was okay with going by seniority, which meant Lachlan would be last. He didn’t really want the others to see him going back with a girl — they’d tease him as he went, as they did Ian now (don’t be impotent, Ian! Is your cock soft yet? He likes being pepper-sprayed right at the moment of orgasm, ma’am!). But going last had its own drawbacks: if he was slow to finish, everyone would know because they’d be waiting for him.
Then three more Asian women came out, each one more beautiful than the last. They each left with one of the rugby players, and the waiting room dwindled. Lachlan hoped they would all be that beautiful. Then they continued coming out in small groups, duos or trios mostly, until finally, only Lachlan was left there in the lobby.
He felt very alone and cold. Even Coach Marshall had gone, either back to the parking lot or maybe he had gone in for a massage and happy ending of his own. Lachlan’s dick had never felt smaller. He knew it was only because he was the newest member of the team, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of personal rejection over being last to be chosen.
“Come along, sir, are you ready for your massage?” That man, Avery, appeared in the waiting room. He smiled at Lachlan, who nodded and hurried after him.
“Uh, yeah…” Lachlan followed the man into the back. His mind raced, concluding that he was being brought to the masseuse. Maybe she didn’t like to leave her massage room, he thought. Once he got into the corridor, he heard his teammates talking trash to each other through the walls.
“Aw, shit yeah!”
“Damn, I bloody love Asian girls!”
“You’re such a dag, mate!”
Lachlan could hear moist sucking sounds in the rooms he passed. They were all women though, he could tell from the feminine sounds they made. He was sure of it. He was positive there’d be a woman waiting in the room the man showed him to.
But there wasn’t. There was just a massage table and a counter covered with fragrant oils, near a bouquet of flowers. A CD player in one corner played New Age music with an Asian flair to it. The man, Avery, nodded at Lachlan, and gestured for him to get on the table on his back.
Lachlan slowly stripped off his shirt, revealing his powerful rugby-toned chest. His pecs rippled nervously and his nipples turned hard as though it was cold in here, even though it was actually humid and warm. He smiled nervously at Avery. “My name is Lachlan,” he said. “Where’s the masseuse?”
“Hello, Lachlan. I’m Avery,” he said. He bowed again. “I’m going to give you your massage today.” He had a very thick American accent.
“Oh. I, uh… I thought it’d be a girl,” Lachlan said. He took off his shoes, but hesitated before dropping his pants.
Before anything else could happen, however, Avery undid Lachlan’s belt in one smooth motion. He pulled down Lachlan’s underpants and again motioned for him to lay on his belly on the table. He moved in a clinical manner, no sexuality here, Lachlan thought, like he was a doctor or a scientist rather than a masseur.
“No girl. Sorry, it’s just me. We ran out of female masseuses today,” Avery said. “I know your Coach paid for a happy ending. It’s okay. Don’t be worried..”
Lachlan was unsure what that meant. Maybe he was just going to give a massage, and then a girl would come over for the happy ending part. That was a reassuring thought. He got up on the massage table and laid on his belly. His bare asscheeks jiggled when he moved.
“Oh yeah, she’s beggin’ for my meat, mates, you wouldn’t even believe it. She bein’ quiet as, because she’s Japanese, but she’s beggin’ me for it!”
“My one loves my dick!”
When the massage began, Lachlan moaned in surprised pleasure and pain. A part of him did feel good, but he didn’t like a bloke touching him so intimately, and it made him uncomfortable. The pain, however, came from the extreme pressure Avery exerted. He massaged as though trying to rub the shoulders right off Lachlan’s back.
Lachlan straightened and stiffened, and he considered calling it off. But the moaning coming from the other rooms made him reconsider. His teammates all had girls, and judging from the sounds they made, they were having a good time. He didn’t want to be left out, and he was now even more confident that Avery was here for the massage while a girl would be coming for the end — Avery acted like a serious masseur. Lachlan would rather have just skipped the massage, but he could live with it so long as a girl came in for the happy ending.
Relaxation flooded his body. Lachlan felt so tense he would never have thought he could relax with a bloke rubbing his back, his hands now just inches from Lachlan’s plump, rugby-player ass. But Avery was actually a very good masseur, and the stress melted away from Lachlan’s back.
“Aah, damn, this girl is swallowing the whole thing, mate!”
“My sheila’s loose as, mate!”
“Roll over,” Avery said. His voice was soft, but he spoke with confidence and authority, so Lachlan could hear it over the hooting catcalls of his teammates.
Lachlan did as he was told. If he hadn’t been suddenly flooded with endorphins, he would have said no. He would have told Avery he’d wait for a girl to come in the room, and he’d roll over for her.
Avery did not put a towel over his crotch, as Lachlan had thought he might. He just began kneading the meat of Lachlan’s pecs and shoulders. Lachlan’s bare dick wiggled when Avery manipulated his flesh. Again, he used so much pressure it was painful, and Lachlan grunted.
“This Asian skank is horny as, mate! You fuckers manage to get hard yet?”
Lachlan blushed as he realised his dick was twitching into full erection, either from his anxiety or from his awareness of the beautiful Japanese girls being fucked all around him, even if he couldn’t actually see any. His hands flailed uselessly above his body. Avery frowned.
“You’re doing okay. Your happy ending is coming soon. You are a football player, right? American football?” Avery said. He didn’t mention Lachlan’s burgeoning hardon.
“Uh, no, rugby. This is Australia, mate. We don’t play American football-“
“I met a quarterback one time. Carolina Panthers-“
“Yeah, that’s a different sport, mate,” Lachlan said, but his voice was weak and strained (he was annoyed that Avery mixed up rugby and American football though — he hated when Americans did that). Avery’s hand was so low on his belly he touched Lachlan’s pubic hair, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“He was very nice. You’re a quarterback? Or the rugby equivalent?”
“Uh… yeah, I’m a quarterback, or something like that…” Lachlan said. He didn’t want to confuse the two sports — it angered him when people did that — but he couldn’t think of anything else to say with his mind focused like a laser on his hard dick just centimeters from Avery’s fingers.
That was when Avery grabbed Lachlan’s manhood with one hand. He held it firmly and stroked it, his rhythm low and slow, his slanted eyes looking at Lachlan like a piece of meat. Lachlan moaned and bucked his body, practically “fucking” Avery’s hand.
“You are going to the Super Bowl?” Avery smirked — he liked pretending to be more ignorant than he really was. It kept Lachlan focused.
“Uh… No, mate that’s a different sport, a different country. Do you know what country you’re in?” Lachlan snapped. His eyes were trained directly on his cock, which throbbed in Avery’s hand. He was surprised he didn’t lose his erection. He certainly didn’t feel sexy.
“Relax… You’re getting a happy ending,” Avery said. He gently pushed on Lachlan’s chest, trying to get him to lay flat on his back. “Quarterbacks are always handsome. They get all the girls, right?”
“Yeah, mate.”
“Oh yeah, this slut knows exactly what she’s doing!!!”
That sounded like Ian. He was always so loud, it annoyed Lachlan, who wondered if the Asian girls were insulted by his teammates shouting out insults like slut. Avery didn’t have any reaction to the sounds from the other rooms, which include some barely audible girlish moaning behind the macho laughter and braying trash-talk.
“Hey Lachlan, how’s yours? You aren’t makin’ a lotta noise, mate? Somethin’ wrong with yah dick? Limp as, huh?”
“Uh, it’s great, she’s, uh… really something!” Lachlan called out. He blushed. That did not sound like something a rugby player would say when having sex with a prostitute. Maybe the others didn’t notice though.
Then Avery bent over and put Lachlan’s dick in his mouth. Lachlan threw his head back, hands hovering above Avery’s head — he had an instinctual urge to hold onto Avery as he licked and slurped on Lachlan’s cock, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch a bloke. So he kept his arms elevated nearby, like any minute now he would push Avery away and start jacking himself off instead.
But he had to admit this felt amazing. It felt more better than the blowjobs his ex had ever given (that was the only person who had ever given him a blowjob, so Lachlan had no idea if she was better or worse than average). Avery’s tongue moved all up and down his shaft, and Lachlan moaned out of genuine excitement. His dick throbbed in Avery’s mouth.
“Yeah, now I hear it, Lachlan, ya got it!”
“We’re all proud of you, mate!”
Lachlan bucked his hips again, slamming his dick down Avery’s throat. He was surprised again to see Avery swallow every inch of Lachlan’s manhood. Apparently, Lachlan realised, this masseur could deep-throat like a porn star. His ex had never gotten more than the first few inches of cockmeat in his mouth.
That sent waves of pleasure up Lachlan’s body. His muscles all writhed and contorted at once, while Lachlan began breathing shallowly, nearly hyperventilating. His face turned a bright red.
Then at last Avery pulled up and off his dick. Lachlan gasped as his dick spasmed in the suddenly cold air. He writhed on the massage table.
“You need some ass, right? Your coach didn’t pay for it, but I know quarterbacks need it. You won’t play right if you don’t drain your balls,” Avery said.
“Um…” Lachlan lifted his head up, eyes opening wide. “Not, a uh… quarterback…”
Before Lachlan knew what was happening, Avery crawled up on the table, spreading his legs. He had taken off his pants at some point, and Lachlan saw his bare white ass.
“Oh, uh…” Lachlan realised that Avery was about to sit on his cock, and he knew he could stop it — all he had to do was slide right off the massage table. But a part of him didn’t want it to stop, not at all, even if his mind told him he should. His full-to-bursting balls were in control now.
“Your coach bought this happy ending, right? You still want it?”
“Uh, yeah…” Lachlan said, his voice sounded weak even to himself. His hands were now above his head so he didn’t even come close to accidentally touching Avery, whose whole body flexed and contorted as he got into position above Lachlan’s crotch.
Then Lachlan gasped again, and he moaned out loud as his dick slid into Avery’s ass. Avery’s cheeks were tight and toned, just like his body, without a single ounce of fat. They were like slightly chilled bowling balls, moving down his cockshaft.
He was astonished that he was doing this, and that he was enjoying it. It was disconcerting and strange but Lachlan wouldn’t have given it up for anything, not now in this moment. Intense pleasure wracked his body, and Lachlan gritted his teeth.
“Oh yeah, who finished first, motherfuckers?!” That was Ian, of course. Why would he brag about that? It’d be better if he could go slower, Lachlan thought, and in any case, Ian started first, so it wasn’t surprising that he finished first. Not hardly anything to brag about, but the rest of the team cheered and clapped as though having sex with a prostitute was as impressive as killing a monster.
“Go for it, Ian, fuck that bitch full!”
Waves of potent sensations shot through his body, and Lachlan found himself grabbing ahold of Avery’s hips regardless of his discomfort with this situation. He felt thin, fine hairs on Avery’s upper thigh, which made reminded Lachlan he was with a bloke, but even then, he couldn’t stop himself from keeping a tight grip on Avery.
Avery moved expertly, swaying his hips up and down, the entire length of Lachlan’s manhood. He faced away from Lachlan, which spared Lachlan the sight of Avery flogging his own cock. That definitely made it easier for Lachlan, though it was obvious that was what Avery was doing. He could see the corded muscles of the bloke’s back writhing as he stroked himself off.
When he felt his orgasm coming, Lachlan blushed. He could hear a moist grunting noise emanating from his throat, but it sounded like somebody else was making those sounds. It felt even weirder a few seconds later, when at least two, maybe a half-dozen or more, of Lachlan’s team came all at once. They moaned and grunted loudly, the sound resonating in the massage parlor’s corridor. It made the hair on the back of Lachlan’s neck stand up.
There was clapping, cheering, oohing and aahing. “Swallow it down, lady, no spilling!” It sounded like they were not being perfect gentlemen — Coach Marshall made them all promise to behave like gentlemen, but no one was doing so, except maybe for Lachlan, who was too nervous to be rude.
His back arched, and he threw his head back again as his orgasm overwhelmed him. He grunted and spasmed. He slammed his dick all the way up Avery’s ass.
Then wad after of creamy-hot cum sprayed within Avery’s gut. Lachlan’s muscles rippled and flexed all together, while spasms of bliss ricocheted up his spine. He clutched at Avery’s back.
“Aw, fuck…” Lachlan’s voice was breathless and hoarse.
With his fingers resting on Avery’s back, Lachlan could feel very clearly when Avery shot his own load. The smell of semen filled the tiny massage room. The muscles in Avery’s back rippled and writhed as an orgasm overtook him as well. Avery shot his wad into the palm of his other hand.
At last they were both done. Lachlan laid back limp and spent, too tired now to be self-conscious about what he had done and who he’d done it to. He wasn’t sure what to do next — his dick limpened inside Avery, who showed no sign of getting off him.
“You feel good now, right?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“You can say to your friends that I was a girl. That’s okay. You’re last so they won’t see,” he said.
“Oh. Okay.”
“You make a good quarterback, I think. You have a nice cock,” Avery said. “And big balls. Football players must have big balls.” Avery suppressed a giggle — he knew perfectly well Lachlan was annoyed by the references to quarterbacks, but Avery thought he was cute when he was annoyed.
“Yeah, football,” Lachlan said. “I’m a good quarterback…” His mind was too focused on his dick in Avery’s tight ass to think about anything else to say.
Finally, just when he thought he couldn’t cope with it any longer, Lachlan breathed a sigh of relief when Avery pulled off him. He still moved in a cold, clinical manner, as though this was simply the last stage in a proper massage. He wiped his ass with a tissue.
Lachlan sat up, then hurriedly put his clothes back on. He felt better when he wasn’t naked anymore.
“Well, thanks, Avery,” he said. He blushed.
“You’re welcome. Tip is ten percent. Standard,” he said. “Eight dollars Australian.”
He certainly knows what country he’s in now, Lachlan thought to himself. “Coach Marshall already paid-“
“Tip is ten percent,” Avery said. “That’s not part of the coach price.”
“Oh, uh… okay,” Lachlan said. He stuffed a few dollars in Avery’s hand and hurried out the door. He didn’t really want to tip him, but he didn’t know what Avery would do if he didn’t — he probably would stop showing discretion about this, at the very least, Lachlan thought, and he might even tell the team what had really happened.
He gingerly poked his head out the door. Nobody was in the corridor, so he hurried out, not even Avery. He felt tremendous relief at the realisation that now he was indistinguishable from his teammates. Even if they knew one person had been with a male masseur, there was no way of knowing who was in which room.
“How was that pussy, mate? Tight as?” Ian asked as Lachlan emerged from the shadowy hallway. Everyone looked at him, and for a moment, he thought they might all know. Maybe this was a big prank, and they were going to tease him forever for not turning Avery down.
“Uh, yeah. Tight as,” Lachlan said softly. His spirit brightened when his teammates burst into cheers. They didn’t know, he thought with a deep sigh of relief.
“She give up anal?”
Lachlan smiled. “Yeah. I got anal.”
“Good on ya, mate!” Ian said as they both headed into the waiting room to meet up with the others. There they shared stories of the prostitutes they had just messed with, or so they claimed to each other.
Avery watched them file out the door into the sunny Australian summer, not a single one of those rugby jocks aware that none of them had done anything with a woman beyond shake her hand. They they had all cornholed a man. The women here were just a show but a useful one for sure. Basking in his satisfied glow, Avery smiled and cleaned his massage room.
A footy team would be coming in soon. Their coach had set up an appointment and said they all needed to get a happy ending, or else they’d keep hooting at waitreses. That was a problem Avery was eager to help with.

The Debt Collector

Leif owes a gambling debt he’s gotta pay off, and that means paying the debt collector… who just might have a secret motivation of his own!

Can Leif get out of his gambling debt intact?

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

“Come in!” barked a deep, gruff voice. Whoever it was sounded annoyed, as though it was obvious that Leif should just come right in to the Broad Avenue traphouse.
Leif gulped and pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked, or even shut all the way. He tried to look as tough as possible. He was a short white hipster with a beard like a fashionable goat and long hair done back in a taut man-bun. He tried to carry himself like he belonged because, as far as Leif was concerned, being seen as not belonging was the worst possible fate. This was a ramshackle building in an all-black neighborhood of Las Vegas — he had not seen a single non-black person for several blocks before arriving here. So no matter how he carried himself, he wasn’t gonna fit in.
Still, he hoped he didn’t look like some punk-ass white boy. A black guy called him that once, and it was humiliating. He kept his shoulders back, head on a swivel, eyes open. Leif Spurling was nobody’s fool.
Well, maybe Nelson Turnbottom’s. But hopefully none of these black people knew that.
He wandered through the run-down squat. Leif had never smelled crack, but when he caught a whiff of that metallic odor, he knew that’s what it was. He had enough sense to know he shouldn’t go asking around for Nelson Turnbottom — judging from the reaction to his knocking on the front door, it was expected for him to just enter and find the person he was looking for. He didn’t wanna fail to fit in.
He went upstairs, because that seemed to be the thing to do. The ground floor was full of hobos. That wasn’t who Leif was looking. There was a baby bottle laying on the steps, along with discarded syringes and filthy underwear. There was a bloodstain on the wall, a big splatter like someone had gotten shot there. It was old though, faded.
“Uh… Nelson Turnbottom?” he said, not too loud.
“In here,” came a very deep, gravelly voice. That must be Nelson Turnbottom. His voice was so rough and sandpapery that Leif wondered if there was something wrong with him.
But Nelson was just big, and he smoked a lot of cigarettes, especially since he left prison. Nelson was in the room at the end of the hall, doing pull-ups on the battered remnants of a bicycle he had set up as a make-shift workout bar. He pulled up his massive body, his broad chest dripping with sweat, counting off.
“Twenty-two. Twenty-three.” He kept going as Leif approached the room.
He was nervous, but he tried not to appear quake. Leif cleared his throat and waited for Nelson to finish his pull-ups. Leif owed money to a white man named Mickey Garelli, and he needed to finish whatever Nelson wanted him to do in order to get his debt paid off. Nelson had work for him or was a debt collector or something.
Leif had agreed back when he thought he had a choice in the matter. Mickey made it clear that this was the way Leif was going to repay his debt, and it did not matter that it seemed skeezy to meet his “boss” or debt collector or whatever in a ghetto crackhouse.
Crackhouse in a deprived area, sorry.
A few drops of sweat splashed off Nelson’s body and landed on Leif’s face, making him pucker and close his eyes. His well-worked upper body arched as he lifted his hugeness up and down, accompanying each pull-up with a deep grunt.
Leif couldn’t believe he had let himself get sucked in this deep. He had never considered the perils of gambling. Honestly he had only started betting on baseball games because it was illicit and dangerous and none of the other hipsters he knew did it back where he came from in Brooklyn. It was scary and authentic and a little weird, so Leif did it.
He only bet small amounts at first, but it turned out he was pretty good at it, and it got him lots of attention. He was the guy who had a bookie — and his bookie — Mickey — was even the old-fashioned kind, an indeterminately ethnic New Yawker, wearing a wifebeater and suspenders and he walked around eating cold-cut subs and collecting money. Leif was deliberately late repaying him a couple times just so Mickey would come around when Leif’s friends were over. He’d pay him off, and Mickey would act like some small-time gangster from a classic movie. His friends thought he was the coolest guy in Vegas.
But somehow he had bet two grand on a Lakers game at the bookie’s in Charles Town, entirely on a whim, because Mickey himself had said he was not sure he set the right odds. He did it without thinking about it, and now he owed that money — Mickey had let him place the bet without any cash upfront.
No problem, Mickey had said, I don’t wanna break your knees or something. I ain’t some small-time gangster from a classic movie. I know this guy, he might have some work for you.
Leif assumed he would have to do something backbreaking, some hard labor that was going to be worth two grand. That was why he had worn sweatpants and a t-shirt. He hadn’t realized he was going into the ghetto, that the address Mickey gave him was a traphouse, or that Nelson was a thug.
But here he was, stammering as he said, “I’m, uh… Mickey sent me…”
Nelson had finished doing his pull-ups. He glowered at Leif as though he hated him, looking him up and down. He squeezed Leif’s biceps and snickered. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a rag. His bare chest gleamed, dark tattoos barely visible against his dark skin.
“You’re Leif?”
Leif nodded.
“What kinda name is that?”
“Uh… It’s Scandinavian,” he said.
“What?” Nelson barked like that was the wrong answer. He didn’t wait for Leif to respond again though. “Shut that door.”
Leif shut the door to the tiny bedroom, which had little more than a mattress on the floor and a trash bag full of clothes scattered around. Nelson leaned the battered bicycle-frame against the wall. His broad, sweaty chest gleamed in the bright light that flowed through the cracked window.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I’m a good worker,” Leif said as he sat. He blushed. He knew he sounded like an idiot. It hadn’t occurred to him that the work Mickey had in mind was illegal in nature, but now that seemed obvious. He wasn’t going to be told to kill someone, was he? That must cost more than two grand, he decided, and hoped. He couldn’t rob someone, right? He wouldn’t know.
He could get two grand from his parents if he absolutely had to. Selling the bicycle would get him close to a thousand. The vinyl and Magic cards were maybe five hundred. Leif was in this deeper than he ever meant to be.
“What?”
“I, uh… I’m a good worker. I can work hard.”
Nelson glared at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Mickey said I had to come work for you,” Leif said. “I’m a good worker. I can do — I can do lots of things. I can cook, I can bake pretty good, and I’m a good driver, and I know some, uh… … I worked as a house painter, I mean. Painting. I know about painting. Punk music.”
“Shut up, you little bitch,” he said. “You do gotta work. You gonna work real hard. Do you drink?”
Leif nodded.
“Good. You should drink,” he said. He produced a bottle of cheap vodka and poured two cups full. It was lukewarm, and it smelled like nail polish. Leif sipped it politely. Nelson looked him up and down again, as though undressing him with his eyes. Leif shuddered and Nelson smiled. “You intact, right?”
“What?”
Nelson narrowed his eyes to slits. “I mean in yo’ ass. You been ruint in yo’ butthole?”
“Oh… What? You mean… have I been ruined in the ass…?” Leif said. “Uh… no. I dunno what that means-“
“Mickey ain’t ask you dat?”
“No…”
“He was s’posed to. Oughta kick his ass. I paid for intact,” Nelson said. He sat down on the mattress next to Leif. It was scuzzy and felt slightly soggy. It made Leif sick. “I thought Mickey was gonna ax you. He was s’posed to tell you the plan.”
“Tell me what?”
“I’m gonna cornhole you, boi.”
“Oh… Uh, what?”
“I said I am gonna cornhole you,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You evuh done that? You ever take it up the ass.”
“No. I don’t know what-“
“Sssshhh… I love cornholin’ whitebois. It’s a hobby I picked up in prison. No one squirms like an intact whiteboi,” Nelson said. He took a big drink of vodka, then put his cup down. His massive chest muscles ripple, and he bent over so he could slowly untied his shoes. “It’s okay to cry,” Nelson said. “Whiteboi tears make good lube. I oughta bottle that shit, sell it in prison commissary. Make a fuckin’ fortune.”
“So you, uh…?”
“You owe Mickey money, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well he turnin’ you out fo’ money. He gonna get paid. He did get paid, technically. I paid him. Mickey always get paid, boi,” Nelson said. “No matter what. He stay gettin’ paid. If it weren’t this, he’d prolly sell yo’ fuckin’ kidney, so you should be thankful I tol’ him to let me know when some pretty whiteboi with a cherry butt needed cash.” He dropped his baggy jeans and his boxers. A fat cock popped out, bigger than any Leif had ever seen. His stomach dropped. Was this really happening to him?
“Wait, can’t we do something else?”
“Nope.” Nelson flopped his limp dick over Leif’s face, and he chuckled when Leif gagged. “You ain’t even start lickin’ yet, you already gaggin’. Open up.” When Leif didn’t immediately respond, Nelson slapped him across the cheek.
Leif opened up to argue and scream, but Nelson pushed his rubbery cockshaft in regardless. Leif choked and Nelson began to grind his hips. He swayed like he was dancing, low-hanging balls swinging and bouncing against Leif’s chin. He even sang softly to himself, mumbling the words to some R&B song that Leif didn’t recognize.
Finally Nelson’s dick hardened up, until it was like a steel rod jamming into Leif’s throat. He gagged over and over, spitting up huge gobs of saliva that soaked his shirt. It tasted like sweat and piss and old cum, and it got even worse when precum started to flow.
It was snotty and sticky, and Nelson made sure it spread all over Leif’s face, which shone once it was covered in precum. He chuckled at Leif’s gagging.
“Whatchoo think?” He flopped his cock over Leif’s face to let him speak.
He let out a long coarse breath. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Ain’t I tell you that already? I like wreckin’ whitebois in they booty. It make me feel good,” he said. “Now tell me whose cock this is?”
“What?”
He slapped Leif over the face, first with the open palm of one hand and then with a meaty thwack of his cock. “I say tell me whose cock this is?”
“Uh… Yours-“
“Say my name, bitch.” He didn’t give Leif a chance to respond. “Say my name, bitch!” He said again and slapped Leif once more.
“Please-!”
“Say my name, bitch!”
“Nelson Turnbottom!”
“Whose cock is this?!”
“Nelson Turnbottom’s cock!” Leif screamed. He repeated it then a few more times, Nelson ramming his precummy cock in each time.
At last he’d had enough of that. He made Leif lay down on the floor with a pillow beneath his upper back, so that his head was upside down and at an angle. “This is the proper position for a good throating. You ready?”
“Nelson, please!”
Leif gagged again as Nelson waited, in position like he was going to do a pushup and Leif’s head just happened to be in the way. His erect cock danced at Leif’s lips. The smell of saliva and slimy precum assaulted Leif’s nostrils.
“Beg me some more, bitch.”
“Please, don’t do this, I can’t swallow any more of your dick. It’s, uh, it’s too big!”
“Well, don’t worry ’bout that, lil bitch. This position mean you won’t have a choice. Imma plow ya throat now. Take a deep breath, cuz you ain’t gonna be breathin’ again fo’ a minute.”
Leif took a deep breath and then Nelson pushed his dick in. Leif choked, but as Nelson predicted, his cock slid all the way in anyway. Leif could feel his throat stretching to accommodate Nelson’s massive meat. Nelson murmured his approval, and a ripple of pleasure rolled up his powerful chest.
Soon enough his balls dangled right on Leif’s nose. Nelson swayed his hips back and forth, so his balls slapped against Leif’s nose and eyes. All he could see were those massive brown balls and the sweat glistening on them.
“How’s dat taste, bitch?” He pulled away so Leif could take a breath.
It was a loud, painful retch. He gasped for air, the pain in his stomach agonizing. His eyes watered as his body cried out for oxygen. His hands clawed uselessly at Nelson’s powerful body.
“Huh? How’s dat taste?”
“Bad…”
“Oh, you don’t like it, huh? Well, don’t worry, I won’t let dat slow me down none,” he said. He chuckled and rubbed Leif’s cheek with one thumb. “Hey, you gotta open up dat throat a little more, okay? You still got like a inch of my dick to get in there.”
“I can’t…”
“You can. I gots faith in you, lil bitch,” Nelson said. He clucked his tongue as though he was genuinely caring. He massaged Leif’s neck. “You know what you need? Incentive. I gotta give you a reason to try. You ain’t tryin’ yo’ best cuz I ain’t give you a good reason.”
“No, Nelson, I’m-“
“Sssh…” Nelson slipped the tip of his dick in, and the sour flavor of precum again assaulted Leif’s senses. Translucent precum coated his tongue and his face. He gagged. Nelson gently smacked Leif on the cheek. “If you don’t swallow me so deep my balls rest on yo’ nose, I gonna tell Mickey you ain’t nevuh show up.”
It took Leif a moment to process what Nelson said, but when he did he tried to scream around the cock in his throat. He didn’t think he could open his mouth up anymore. Nelson laughed at his muffled, moist screams and pistoned his hips again. He squeezed Leif’s nostrils shut with two callused fingers. He pinched harder than necessary, like he was trying to rip Leif’s nose off his face.
Pain exploded from Leif’s throat, which felt like it was splitting in half. Snot leaked from his nose. Nelson groaned and ground his dick in deeper and deeper, rolling his hips this way and that like he needed to hit every corner of Leif’s mouth.
At last his balls slapped against Leif’s nose, really laying into his face. Ball-sweat smeared over his nostrils, and if his senses weren’t overwhelmed by the salty precum on his tongue, he would have wanted to vomit from the smell of balls. His throat strained and spasmed. He had been doing pull-ups a few moments ago, so his manfunk was strong, and it of course mixed with the precum and saliva dripping down Nelson’s cockshaft to his scrotum.
“Yo, Nelson, keep it down, nigga,” said some ashy-skinned, dull-eyed crackhead who appeared in the doorway.
“Is we bein’ too loud, nigga? So sorry,” Nelson said.
The crackhead turned around to leave, then stopped. He got down on his knees to watch. He peered deep into Leif’s eyes. He was lean, ropy-muscled, with a scruffy gray-streaked beard, and he was missing most of his teeth.
“Can I piss in his mouth?” the crackhead asked. He had a harsh, rickety voice, and he got up with his dick out before Nelson even said anything. The crackhead an ugly warty dick.
Leif felt himself grow dizzy from lack of oxygen, fear and disgust. He heard Nelson agree and tried to crawl away, but Nelson dragged him back.
Was that a sore on the crackhead’s dick? There was something there, but Leif couldn’t tell if it is was real or a shadow. The crackhead flopped his cock out of the fly of his jeans. He brought the tip to Leif’s mouth before letting it rip. The taste was foul, and Leif fluttered his arms above his chest.
He definitely wished he had simply borrowed the money from his parents now.
Acrid piss filled Leif’s mouth, and he gagged at the intensely sour smell. Something about it was even worse than he thought it would be — it tasted like that metallic smoked-crack smell he had picked up downstairs, and a little like garbage runoff, rainwater and farts.
Most of the piss spilled out past Leif’s lips, coating his face and dripping onto the floor. The crackhead cackled and walked away once he was done, while Nelson stood above Leif and watched him writhe.
“Now I’m gonna destroy that ass,” Nelson said. He didn’t give Leif much time to react. He threw him over the couch and ripped his pants to shreds pulling them down. “Beg me for it.”
“Nelson, I can’t-“
“Nah. That ain’t how you beg,” Nelson said. He wedged his fat, hot cock between Leif’s cheeks. He humped slowly there. He grabbed Leif’s hair with one hand and slammed his face onto the floor. He wiped it there like he was trying to clean the piss off. “Beg me, bitch. Beg me. Beg me.”
At first Leif assumed he was supposed to wait for Nelson to give him a chance to beg. But it soon became apparent that Nelson wasn’t going to wait. He smeared his face all over the grimy crackhouse floor, repeating himself over and over. “Beg me. Beg me. Beg me.”
“Please! Nelson! Please, uh… cornhole me! Your cock is, uh… my boss! Your cock is my master!”
“That’s right, bitch. I know it. You ain’t gotta say,” Nelson said with a cocky laugh. “I like that improvisation though. That’s the kinda thing a nigga don’t do. Only a whiteboy get that broke down.”
He slammed his dick in so quick Leif didn’t have time to fight back. He squealed and screamed as pain erupted in his ass. It felt like Nelson wrecked every inch of his insides. His cock was enormous, and he gave no mercy to Leif’s squeals of pain. He just clucked his tongue and kept thrusting with those powerful legs.
“What’s yo’ daddy do, whiteboi?”
“What?”
He put Leif’s neck in a chokehold, placing their faces so close that Nelson’s rancid breath condensed on Leif’s face. He didn’t seem to mind that he was close to the crackhead’s piss. He spit on Leif’s face, then used one hand to smear the saliva all over him. Leif gagged.
That massive cock split him open. Leif was in too much pain to say anything. His eyes rolled back in his head. He wondered if his ass was bleeding, but he both couldn’t focus enough to reach behind himself and check, and he was too scared about what he might find. Was Nelson doing real damage to his rectum? It felt like he might be.
“Listen up, whiteboi. I don’t like repeatin’ myself. I asked what yo’ daddy do. For a job.”
“He’s… a prison guard…” Leif said through gritted teeth. After he said that, it occurred to him it might have been better to lie. But Nelson didn’t seem perturbed to find out, almost like he had already known. Leif was too overwhelmed by agony and humiliation to think of a lie anyway.
“You gots any brothers or sisters?”
“One of each.”
“Really? I did not know that. What’s yo’ sister do?” He slammed his dick in the rest of the way, and Leif screamed.
“Uh, she’s. A teacher. Fourth-grade. Teacher.” He gritted his teeth. He hyperventilated, which made the remnants of piss in his mouth taste stronger. He gagged again.
“Yo’ brother?”
“He’s a prison guard too. Nelson, get off me! I-” His complaint was cut off by Nelson tightening the chokehold. He started to move his hips in a circle, like he needed to hit every part of Leif’s insides.
Now that his dick was fully inside Leif, Nelson lifted his upper body. He kept Leif’s head and shoulders flat on the ground, and Nelson used all of his weight to slam his dick in and out. His muscular body rolled and roiled above Leif’s smooth back. Leif clawed at the rancid floor of the crackhouse.
“Huh? Yo’ daddy and yo’ brother… do they work at the same prison?”
“Yeah. A state prison in Texas.”
“They ever ramrod niggas?” His voice was so close its deep, gravelly resonance echoed in Leif’s ear. He shuddered at the sensation, which made the pain in his ass even worse. Nelson pulled tighter on his hair to get his attention, as his dick throbbed mightily in Leif’s sensitive asshole. “Huh? Yo’ daddy and yo’ brother, they ever ramrod niggas?” He paused. “This here, what we’s doin’, in prison, they call it ramroddin’. Yo’ daddy and yo’ brother, do they evuh ramrod niggas?”
“What? No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Well… yeah, pretty sure.” Leif’s voice was wavering, plaintive. He realized there was more than just nosy curiosity behind these questions of Nelson’s.
“You wrong,” Nelson said.
“You mean…?” Leif’s mind reeled. A part of him figured it out right away, but that part of him was overwhelmed by the part that was being viciously ramrodded. He gasped and screamed as Nelson resumed grinding his dick this way and that inside Leif, whose mind whirred. “They ramrodded you?” He asked finally after Nelson growled into his ear.
“That’s right, whiteboi. So if you need someone to blame fo’ this, you find yo’ daddy and yo’ brother,” Nelson said. He laughed and stuck one finger in Leif’s mouth until he gagged, making Leif’s ass clench around his cock. “E’ry single thing I done to you is something they do to niggas all the time in that joint. Even lettin’ a crackhead piss in yo’ mouth just fo’ fun. That’s they specialty.”
“Please, stop… I’ll talk to them, I’ll make them quit it-“
He began pounding away, ramming his dick in as hard as he could. Leif screamed at the top of his lungs, and buried his face in his arms. He couldn’t believe this was happening because of his father and brother — they didn’t even like Leif. They saw him as a stupid liberal hipster. When he told them about this, they’d probably laugh at him, tell him he was an idiot for gambling in the first place.
And the worst part was, they’d be right.
Leif’s face was bright red, tears streaming from his eyes. Nelson groaned and moaned as an orgasm finally ran through his body. His thick tattooed muscles undulated, and he pounded on his chest.
Cum sprayed into Leif’s ass. It was searing hot, thick and creamy, cloying, sticky, seeping into his flesh. Leif writhed in Nelson’s powerful arms.
It lasted for what felt like forever. More and more cum just kept on flowing into him. He could feel its heat and its snotty texture trickling through his body. Nelson sharply gasped into his ear as the orgasm rolled over him.
“Say you love me, whiteboi. Say you’ll follow prison rules from now on. Say you won’t talk back and you gonna line up like a good nigga when it’s time for chow hall,” He said through gritted teeth.
“I love you, Nelson,” he said through his tears. “I’ll follow prison rules from now on. I’ll line up like a good nigga when it’s time for chow hall.”
“Good. You can leave. You can tell yo’ daddy and yo’ brother that Nelson Turnbottom got his revenge,” Nelson said. He took a deep breath as he pulled his dick out with an audible, moist plop. Leif felt incredible relief and intense agony in his sore ass, the pain reawakening now that it was over. He screamed and sobbed into the floor. Nelson patted him on the back of the head. “Say yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”